And I'm Your Lionheart
by Lee Whimsy
Summary: The adventure doesn't end after the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo lingers in Erebor while Thorin recovers from his wounds, and soon finds himself caught up in politics, romance, and the occasional kidnapping. Ensemble cast. AU. Eventually Thorin/Bilbo.
1. The Battle of Five Armies

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 1

The Battle of Five Armies

**A/N: **I'm writing this because otherwise I won't be able to think about the end of _The Hobbit_ without feeling slightly miserable. To that end, you can count on a happy ending for just about everyone and a lot of Thorin/Bilbo fluff. I hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest. The title comes from the song _King and Lionheart_, by Of Monsters and Men, because I've decided that it's my Thilbo theme song.

* * *

When Bilbo awoke, the world around him was jumbled and uncertain, and the first time he opened his eyes the pain was enough to split him in two. For a long dizzy moment he thought he would pass out again—it would be so easy, easier than breathing, to sink back into the soft, comfortable darkness.

No. He wouldn't go quietly. His Tookish blood, contrary and reckless to the last, was still hot with the violence of battle, and he had a dim notion that there was something he needed to do: something important. He clung grimly to consciousness, heart beating stubbornly in his bruised, aching chest. Everything hurt, but he pushed that aside. It didn't matter.

Little by little, he took stock of his situation. Clouds hung low in the sky, gray and ominous, and the little daylight that remained was fading fast. It was eerily silent; he could hear nothing but the wind, which blew small flurries of ice and snow down from the heights, and the cold air tugged at his matted hair and stung his face and hands. The Lonely Mountain loomed above them like a spectre, but he could only see the utmost peak. He was trapped in wasteland of rocky slopes, and the dead were scattered around like discarded toys, heaps of rent flesh and broken bones.

He staggered to his feet. He'd watched elves and dwarves alike torn apart in the battle, the bodies hewn where they lay, but no trace of them remained. The only corpses he saw were goblins, and their mounts broken underneath them or dead nearby. One of the Wargs had been hewn down only a few feet away from him, entrails torn out and trailing, its eyes glassy and its mouth open in a frozen snarl, decayed teeth stained with blood. It was a horrific sight, but Bilbo glanced at it only briefly as he scanned the battlefield for more familiar figures. There were none.

Had any of his friends or allies survived the battle? Perhaps he was the only one left. He remembered how the goblins had swarmed the mountain and the slopes, thousands upon thousands of them, overwhelming the dwarves of the Iron Hills and breaking through the ranks of Thranduil's personal guard. It was there that Bilbo had decided to make his last stand, and his eyes stung with helpless tears as he thought of how the goblins had shattered the Elvish lines. He must have been knocked unconscious soon after. The last thing he remembered was watching in horror as a young warrior in full armor, his face pale and desperate, threw himself in front of the king to shield him from a fatal blow. Surely Thranduil and the rest had been killed, and Bilbo left for dead in the carnage. But where were the bodies?

He shivered, trying to draw the remains of his cloak more securely around himself. Presently he decided that he would make for the mountain, and he began to walk, legs almost giving out with every step. He'd last seen Thorin and the rest of the Company fighting at the walls, and the goblins would have made a triumph of Thorin's body near the place where he'd fallen. If Bilbo was going to die in this miserable place—and that seemed inevitable now—he would die near his commander and king. It was the least he owed him, after stealing the Arkenstone and handing it over to their enemies, no less a betrayal because he'd had the best of intentions. Stupid, useless hobbit! Thorin had been right at the beginning. It would have been better for all of them if he had never left the Shire.

He'd thought he would rather be hated by Thorin than mourn him. He'd thought that if only he could prevent the battle, everything would turn out all right in the end, even if Thorin never spoke to him again. He'd had it all planned out. The elves and men would leave, satisfied with a small portion of the treasure, and Thorin would be King Under the Mountain. Bilbo would go back to the Shire, lonely but not grieving, secure in the knowledge that his former friends had regained their home at last.

But he'd gotten it wrong, as usual. The elves and men had been the least of their worries—Azog's hordes had slaughtered them all alike. And now Bilbo was alone on the battlefield, forgotten even by his enemies. The sudden despair almost drove him back to his knees, but still he trudged on, one foot in front of the other, in as straight a line as the rough landscape would allow.

He had no sense of time, but eventually he realized that the snow was falling harder, and that the wind had dropped an octave. There was something else, too—something beneath the wind. A voice? He strained his ears, trying to make it out more clearly.

"Bilbo!" The call was faint, almost swept away by the gathering storm. "Bilbo!"

Hope leaped suddenly in his chest. He stumbled towards the sound. "I'm here!" he shouted, heedless of the danger. "Over here!"

There was no response. Nothing. But someone had been calling his name, he was certain of it, and he looked around wildly as he hurried forward.

There!

A familiar shape loomed suddenly out of the gathering dark. Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks.

"Bofur?"

The dwarf looked terrible. His normally ruddy face was waxen, his arm and left side swathed with bandages, and a deep gash across his forehead had turned his face into a mess of dirt and crusted blood. He was alive, though, and none of the rest mattered compared to that. Bilbo reached out to embrace him, but Bofur stared ahead, unseeing.

"Bilbo? Damn and blast, hobbit, where are you?"

"I'm right here!" Bilbo cried. Why couldn't he see him? They were only a few paces apart. What could possibly—

—oh.

The Ring, of course.

He didn't remember putting it on, but there it was, gleaming dully, untouched by any dirt or blood. He yanked it off his finger, cursing his addled wits. So that was why he'd been abandoned on the battlefield!

"I'm here," said Bilbo, shoving the contemptible thing into his pocket.

Bofur leapt backwards and stared as if he was seeing a ghost.

"By Aulë, it is you," he said, his voice rough, and swept Bilbo up into a tight embrace. "I thought I was going mad. We'd taken you for dead, but we couldn't find your body. I was sent out to search one last time."

Bilbo could hardly breathe, and not just because Bofur was holding him far too tightly. It was too much, all of it. He had resigned himself to a lonely, friendless death, either on the battlefield or in the wilderness beyond. A comforting embrace, a familiar voice—could it be possible that such things still existed, that all was not lost? But after a long moment Bofur pulled away, and Bilbo's mind began to catch up with his emotions.

"Sent out—so some of the others survived. What happened? Where's Thorin? Did—"

"We carried the day," Bofur said, cutting him off. He didn't sound triumphant. "The rest can wait. Can you walk?"

Bilbo nodded. "I was headed towards the mountain when you found me."

"Good. I don't have the strength to carry you, and it might already be too late."

"Too late for what? What's going on?"

But the dwarf said nothing more. He just grabbed him by the arm and set off, and Bilbo stumbled along, trying desperately to keep up with the fast pace. It was all he could do to keep walking, much less demand answers to his questions. Every breath was a struggle.

They were still boxed in by uneven ground, picking a path through the bodies and wreckage, but it was clear that they were headed towards the mountain. As they drew close, the first signs of life began to appear: there were voices in the distance, carried by the wind along with plumes of black smoke, and though night had fallen, Bilbo could see an eerie red glow in the distance. Acrid, sickly smoke burned his nostrils.

Then they were standing atop the last of the rocky slopes, the mountain entirely visible at last. Spread out before them were the scorched plains where the fiercest fighting had taken place, and where the victorious armies were now camped.

It was an eerie, forbidding sight. Here and there funeral pyres burned red and roaring, columns of black smoke glowing with sparks and mingling with the falling snow. There were smaller fires, too, and hundreds of torches, and they provided enough illumination for Bilbo's sharp eyes to make out the standards flying over the battlefield. Thranduil, Dain, Thorin, the men of Esgaroth—all four banners flew high.

They started down the hillside towards the encampment. Bofur was half-dragging him now, his uninjured hand wrapped around Bilbo's arm tightly enough to bruise, and there was Balin striding up to meet them. His armor was gouged and black with soot, and face was grim, but when he spoke he sounded relieved, not angry. "You've found him," he said.

"Is there time?" Bofur asked.

"Yes. But hurry."

They pressed on. Faces passed in a blur, elves and dwarves and men alike. He thought he recognized some of them, but the torchlight made everything look strange and savage. Above the clamor of voices there was the crackling of the fires and the howl of the storm.

Bilbo could see their destination now. It was a hastily-erected pavilion, standing a little apart from the rest of the encampment, near the charred and ruined gates that led into the mountain. There were guards standing at the entrance: dwarves of the Iron Hills. A few of them were openly weeping.

"Please," Bilbo said, a terrible suspicion forming in his weary mind. "Please. What's going on?"

Bofur didn't meet his eyes.

"The battle was won," he said as they stepped inside. "But Thorin is dying."


	2. Bury My Heart Next to Yours

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 2

Bury My Heart Next To Yours

**A/N: **I am unbelievably grateful to everyone who has taken an interest in this story so far! We've got such a wonderful fandom going on here, and I'm so psyched to be a part of it. :D

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest. This time, the chapter title is from the song _Ghosts That We Knew_, by Mumford & Sons.

* * *

Inside the pavilion everything was still and quiet, and Bilbo stood at the entrance. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

Thorin was lying surrounded by furs and blankets, his chest swathed in bandages that were already soaked through with blood. His weapons and ruined armor were beside him and Azog's mace had been left in the pile, filthy and crusted with gore. Bilbo tried not to imagine what kind of damage it had done to Thorin's body.

He was speaking with a dwarf that Bilbo didn't recognize, and hadn't yet noticed their arrival. The stranger was shaking his head and frowning, but Thorin was clearly unmoved by whatever arguments he was making.

"You're the only one he's asked for," Bofur said quietly, standing just behind him. "It's been hours, and he's wanted nothing else."

Bilbo was too distracted to hear the words, but Thorin looked up and met Bilbo's gaze, his eyes dark with some sudden emotion.

"Leave us, cousin," he said. "And you, Bofur. Go and see to my nephews."

Thorin ignored their protests. Soon he and Bilbo were alone, but for a long moment they were both silent. How could it be, after everything, that they had nothing to say to one another? He wanted nothing more than to rush forward and take Thorin's hands in his own, but the memory of their last encounter lingered between them, and Bilbo forced himself to stay where he was.

"They told me you were dead," Thorin said at last. He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if every word was a struggle, and his voice was ragged with pain.

"They told me that you're dying," said Bilbo.

"Will you mourn?" Thorin asked.

The question struck Bilbo dumb. Thorin smiled mirthlessly at his silence. "I almost killed you at our last parting," he said. "It was too much to expect your forgiveness."

"No," he said, and then the words were tumbling out of his mouth and he couldn't stop them. "No, I do forgive you. You were angry. I knew you would be. I couldn't stand the thought of you dying, that's all—not when the dragon was dead and you were home at last. I just wanted to help. So I took the Arkenstone. But it's all gone so horribly wrong, and—and I know it's a stupid thing to ask, but please don't die. For me. Don't die."

Thorin stared at him, inscrutable. "Time and time again I misjudge you," he said. "And here you are to prove me wrong one last time. Would you sit beside me?"

It was the gentlest request Bilbo had ever heard from him. He could no more refuse than he could quiet the storm still raging outside. He made to kneel down beside him, but his legs gave out before he could manage it, and he half-collapsed at Thorin's side.

"You're wounded," Thorin said, trying to sit up. It was too much of an effort, and he cursed and fell back against the blankets, chest heaving.

"I'm perfectly fine," Bilbo said hastily. "Don't worry about me!"

Thorin, impossibly, began to laugh, though every movement must have been agony for him. "As stubborn as any dwarf," he choked out. "What a pair we make. And I thought you didn't belong in our Company."

Soon he fell silent again, but this was a better kind of silence. The furs piled around Thorin were impossibly soft; Bilbo found himself leaning towards them, gravitating towards the comfort and warmth of Thorin's body. He was so very tired, and Thorin was dying. It occurred to Bilbo that it would be quite nice if he could fall asleep at Thorin's side and never wake up.

"Your hair is tangled," he said presently. "And your braids are half undone."

Thorin made a small noise of agreement. "I imagine they are."

"I could fix them for you. If you'd like."

Silence.

"It doesn't matter," Bilbo said, his cheeks flushing red. "I didn't mean—"

"It would be a kindness," said Thorin.

Bilbo's fingers trembled as he began to work the knots out, trying not to think about whose blood, precisely, was matted in Thorin's dark hair. But soon he settled into the work, his hands working automatically while his mind drifted. He thought of the battle, of the long road home to Hobbiton, of the nuisance of braiding hair without ties to keep his work in place. He thought of everything except Thorin's labored breathing, everything except the bitter cost of the gold under the Mountain. Bilbo thought of the Arkenstone, and the soft silver glow of the mithril coat that Thorin had gifted him. Both impossibly precious, and both bought at far too dear a price.

Would it have been better if they'd never made their journey? If Gandalf had never stopped beside his gate and Thorin and his kin had never set out to reclaim their birthright? Somehow he couldn't imagine Thorin living out his days as a blacksmith, or as the leader of a scattered and homeless people. Thorin was a child of Durin, and he had dragged the rest of them along his wake, fighting the world for every inch of ground. He was no less his grandfather's heir for want of a throne, and he would die a king, just as his forefathers had.

If anyone had asked, Bilbo would have said he was too tired to cry. The tears came regardless. His shoulders trembled with quiet sobs as he worked, but if Thorin noticed, he said nothing.

By the time Bilbo was finished with his self-appointed task, his tears were dry on his cheeks, and Thorin was sleeping fitfully. Bilbo curled up at his side, Sting close at hand. No attackers would get through Dain's guards, but he intended to keep watch anyway—no sooner had he settled down, though, than his eyes were closing of their own accord.

He dreamed that was back home in Hobbiton, running from room to room, tracing routes across old maps and looking for something that he'd long since misplaced. When he woke, Thorin was delirious: sometimes silent, sometimes speaking in an incomprehensible mix of Khuzdul and the common tongue.

Bilbo sent the guards to fetch a healer. "I'm here," he said, over and over again, as he waited for them to arrive. "I'm here."

There was nothing else he could do.

* * *

Dain's healers had come and gone, and they said it was only a matter of time.

"What," Bilbo said, "so you're just going to leave him? There must be something you can do! You've got to be here when he wakes up, at least."

"If he wakes up again, then you and the rest of his company can say your farewells," snapped one of the dwarves. "We all grieve for Thorin Oakenshield, hobbit, but we cannot save him. Should we leave others to die while we fret over his body?"

Bilbo glowered at them from his place at Thorin's side. They were right. That was worst of it. It had been an ugly battle, and whenever the wind died down he could hear the groans and screams of the wounded carrying across the encampment. It was foolish to waste time on lost causes, but a small, selfish part of him still rebelled at the thought of giving up. This was Thorin! Surely a rightful prince, an heir of Durin, deserved better than that. So what if other people died? Bilbo wanted to stamp his feet and demand that the healers stay with Thorin no matter how hopeless it was, and no matter the cost.

"My cousin has made it clear that he doesn't want the healers to waste their time," Dain had said, as if guessing the nature of his thoughts. "Your loyalty does you credit, but he is hurt beyond our power to heal. Even your wizard said so."

Bilbo bit back an angry retort, but said nothing. The dwarves left soon after. Dain clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.

He wasn't left alone for long: a steady stream of dwarves, some of them members of the Company and some unfamiliar, appeared in the pavilion, despite the time of night and injuries of their own. Bofur sat with him for a while, and Ori fluttered in occasionally to ask if there was anything he could do, but Bilbo paid them little attention. Something was nagging at him. Something Dain had said.

_He is hurt beyond our power to heal._

Perhaps it was the Tookish part of him, the part that dreamed and schemed and refused to believe in unhappy endings, that kept him from simply giving up and accepting the inevitable. Or perhaps it was the sight of Thorin lying there pale and shivering. It felt wrong, to see him so vulnerable, and he thought of their first escape from Azog, when Thorin had been wounded and unarmed among the burning pines. Bilbo had been by his side then, and whether due to reckless courage or pure dumb luck, Thorin had survived. They'd all survived, and Bilbo had been so happy, so certain that the worst was behind them.

_He is hurt beyond our power to heal._

The next time Ori appeared, Bilbo asked him to take a message to someone. "It's for Thorin," he added, when Ori hesitated. "It's important."

Ori brightened at that, and he limped out as quickly as he could. Time crawled by. Bilbo waited, impatience warring with exhaustion, as the minutes dragged into the better part of an hour. Soon it would be dawn, and the world brightened around him even as the storm picked back up again. A strong gust of wind shook the canvas walls of the pavilion, small flurries of snow slipping in through the gaps. Bilbo shivered, and then wondered if Thorin was cold too. Likely he was too far gone to notice, but just in case, Bilbo pulled off his tattered cloak and tucked it securely around him, careful not to jostle him or disturb his bandages.

Raised voices outside caught his attention and he pressed a kiss to Thorin's brow before going to investigate.

"What's going on?" he asked, sticking his head outside the pavilion for the first time since the previous evening. "Is something the matter?"

"It's nothing for you to worry about," one of the guards assured him. "We'll handle it."

"On the contrary," said the tall, blond figure standing opposite the guards, "I think my presence is far more the halfling's concern than yours."

Bilbo's eyes widened.

"King Thranduil," he said, bowing as deeply as his bruised ribs would allow. It had worked! His message had actually worked! "It's all right," he told the guards. "He's here at my request. For Thorin."

Dain's men weren't nearly as comforted by that declaration as Ori had been, but after much grumbling and several suspicious glances they let Thranduil pass. "We'll be here if you need us," one of them said.

"My thanks," Bilbo said, sketching another quick bow. "I, uh—please come in, your highness. Sir."

The expression on Thranduil's face could have been a smile or a grimace.

"You summoned me here on behalf of Thorin Oakenshield," he said as they stepped inside. "Why should I care about a dwarf so selfish and prideful that he would rally his kin to do battle against me?"

"Thorin is a king just as you are," said Bilbo, defensively. "And he was wounded in battle along with many of his soldiers and yours. He had no reason to love you, but he fought beside you regardless."

"And?"

"And now he's dying."

"I will not apologize to your king," Thranduil said, "nor honor him with my friendship on his deathbed. He fought for nothing but wealth and the satisfaction of his own vanity. Is there anything else you would say to me?"

Bilbo's hands were clenched so hard that his fingers ached. "Gandalf told me once that Lord Elrond is a great healer."

"So one hears," Thranduil said.

"There is nothing more the dwarves can do for him," said Bilbo. "But I thought, perhaps—"

"You thought that one of my healers might serve better."

Bilbo nodded, and forced himself to meet Thranduil's cold, impersonal gaze. There was a time when he would have been afraid of such a great and terrible king. Not anymore.

"I've already told you that I owe him nothing," Thranduil said. "What makes you believe I will grant such a favor?"

"Because you're not heartless!" Bilbo cried. "I was there during the battle, and I saw you. You suffered when your men died. You fought to protect them, and they died to defend you. Don't pretend that you don't know how it feels to lose someone you love, or—" he faltered, choking back sudden tears, "or to be helpless when they're hurting."

Thranduil looked down at Bilbo contemplatively. "No," he said, at last. "I am not entirely heartless. And you truly make no other claim on me?"

Bilbo frowned. "I don't understand."

"No? Perhaps you will, in time," the Elvenking said, more to himself than to Bilbo. "But it hardly matters now."

Bilbo held his breath.

"Well, what are you standing around for?" he said. "I need supplies, and I doubt if your allies have anything worthwhile on hand; have you runner find my eldest son and bring him here. He will know what's necessary. Oh, and fetch me the dwarves who have been attending him. I might as well hear what they have to say."

Bilbo could hardly believe it. "You'll send one of your healers, then?"

"No, halfling. I am attending him myself. And you needn't gawp. I'm not your precious Lord Elrond, but I have not lived for seven thousand years to be useless in a sickroom."

Joy followed close behind shock, and Bilbo didn't even notice Thranduil's tart humor. "Thank you," he said, and damn it all, he was about to start crying again. "I just—thank you. Thank you."

"I haven't done anything yet," Thranduil said. "Now go and make yourself useful."

Bilbo obeyed with alacrity.

When dawn finally broke over the encampment, it set the whole world glowing. Snow blanketed everything in sight, and the mountaintop sparkled whenever a bit of sun peeped through the blustery clouds. Bilbo didn't notice any of it. He was as heedless of the weather as he was of his own pain and exhaustion, caught up in the entirely Tookish hope that all might not be lost: that Thorin, against all reasonable odds, might live.

He ran to fetch Thranduil's son, heart pounding double time in his chest.


	3. And So It Goes, This Soldier Knows

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

3.

And So It Goes, This Soldier Knows

**A/N**: Merry Christmas, Hobbit fandom! You're all too wonderful for words, and I hope that your holidays are filled with everything that's good about the season.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest. This time, the chapter title comes from _Soldier_, by Ingrid Michaelson. My Thilbo playlist is taking over my music collection at an alarming rate.

* * *

"The hunting parties are back," Bilbo said, breathless. "Master Bard says that they've brought the herb you asked for."

Thranduil didn't even glance up from his work. "Well, don't just stand there idling, you useless halfling. Go and fetch them!"

Three days had passed since the battle. Thranduil was as relentless a nurse as he had been a jailor, and he remained in Thorin's pavilion day and night, with Bilbo as his errand boy. Thorin did his part by stubbornly refusing to die, despite his shattered ribs and the raw wounds gouged deep in his chest; the greatest danger was that his injuries would fester, and so the hunting parties that rode out from the encampment every day had been ordered to find a particular herb, one that Thranduil claimed would protect against infection.

Bilbo ran and fetched them, as ordered. No sooner had he returned than Thranduil sent him off again, this time with a message for Bard about the patrol rosters. By the time that was settled, he was late bringing Thranduil's supper to the pavilion, and soon it was evening: time for the general meeting.

Bilbo didn't mind. He was worn to the bone with tension and worry, and any distraction was a welcome one. He would have been little more than extra baggage on patrols, or as a member of the hunting parties that were tracking down the last of the goblins and Wargs, but running errands and taking messages was something he could manage, and he had thrown himself into any such work he could find.

Life into the encampment had settled into a routine, and Bilbo was surprised to realize that he was a small but necessary part of it. It wasn't easy, keeping the peace between the three armies—for one thing, Thranduil and Dain still refused to speak to one another—but Bilbo had been caught squarely between the Bagginses and the Tooks for his entire life, and he had always been good at sorting out squabbling children.

"I don't understand," Bilbo had said to Gandalf on more than one occasion, "why so many important people insist on being so confoundedly stubborn! I ran fifteen separate messages to Dain this afternoon, and I might as well have just told him _Thranduil thinks you're an idiot _every time."

"You're a hobbit," said Gandalf, as if that was explanation enough. "And even you, Mr. Baggins, couldn't possibly expect thousands of years of mistrust to vanish in a single day."

"It's been the better part of a week, actually," Bilbo said, feeling contrary and mulish.

"Mind your manners, and don't make a fuss about things that are beyond you," Gandalf snapped. Soon after, though, he gentled and added "And think of the healers, and the cooks, and the soldiers assigned to patrols. Things are hardly as bad as you're making them out."

He was right. As a rule, healers of all sorts were much more practical than their kings, and the dwarves and elves who served at this particular battlefield were no exceptions. When word got out that the Elvenking was attending to Thorin Oakenshield, an unusual precedent was set. It began in small ways—borrowed bandages, quick conversations about the best way to treat infected Warg bites, hot drinks exchanged during hurried meals. Soon, however, Dain's personal physician could be seen tending to Thranduil's soldiers and Bard's men alike, and Elvish herbs and medicines, gathered in the Greenwood, were being distributed not only to Thorin but throughout the encampment. It was the same with the cooks—provisions were scarce, and it only made sense to share whatever food could be hunted or foraged.

Bilbo heartily approved, but he had no notion how revolutionary the change really was. He knew nothing about the roots of the long enmity between elves and dwarves. No one had ever told him the story of Doriath; the names Thingol and Nauglamír were strange to him. As far as Bilbo was concerned, the whole matter was something like the feud between the Sackvilles and the Whitfoots, which dated back to the memorable occasion when Will Whitfoot, as a young tween, had made off with the entire contents of Cameillia Sackville's pantry in the course of a single night.

He knew better than to say anything of the sort to the rest of the dwarves. His friends knew him too well to take offense, and Dain was uncommonly kind to him, in his own gruff fashion. But among most of the dwarves of the Iron Hills, it had been generally agreed that Thranduil was more likely to poison Thorin than to save him, and that Bilbo was nothing more than thief and a meddler who had no right to be involved with Durin's heirs the first place. Bilbo had overheard more than one argument between Dain and his commanders on the subject. Dain's final words were always the same, and they baffled and pleased Bilbo in equal measure.

"My cousin has chosen the hobbit twice over. I could no more doubt Bilbo Baggins than I could doubt Thorin himself."

And so Bilbo kept running errands, and the days passed by. It seemed unfair that the world could simply get up and carry on after so much death and destruction, but nobody had asked Bilbo's opinion on the matter. He managed as best he could, and made only two allowances for his grief: at night he slept as near to Thorin as Thranduil would permit, and every morning he stopped by the quiet, miserable tent where Fili kept watch over his brother's ruined body.

When Kili, or what was left of him, had first been carried in off the battlefield, one of the dwarven healers told Fili that giving him a quick end would be a mercy. Pale and half-dead himself, Fili swore by Aulë that he would gut anyone who tried. He hadn't left Kili's side since. Every morning just before dawn, Bilbo brought them breakfast and sat with them for a while.

"Maybe he'll wake up today," Fili said each morning. "I think he's looking better, don't you?"

Bilbo couldn't bring himself to answer—there was nothing he could say that wasn't a lie or a piece of cruelty—but each morning he brought enough food for two, and never commented when he took the second portion away, untouched, every night.

The night before the hunting party brought Thranduil's herbs back to camp, Bilbo had stayed with the brothers for longer than usual, watching while Fili sat at his brother's side and scribbled endlessly on parchment, a string of unfinished designs that he explained to Bilbo in disjointed detail. "It'll be a series of catches and levers," he said, "detachable, or at least with different attachments, so he can still hold a shield or use a bellows, or hammer and anvil. I can start taking measurements as soon as—" he faltered, glancing down at the space where Kili's right arm should have been "—well, you know."

"You're very good at that. The sketching."

"When he first apprenticed us, Thorin tried to teach us separately. Thought it would be good for us. But I was no good in the forge and Kili didn't have the patience for anything else. Eventually he gave up and let us work together." Fili paused, calloused fingers tracing over the parchment. "Do you think I'm going mad?"

"No," said Bilbo. "But I wouldn't blame you if you were. I've wondered about myself, these last few days."

"He's going to wake up," Fili said. "He is. Just like Thorin. They're going to be fine, and Mother will come from the Blue Mountains. You'll see." He returned to his parchment, rubbing out one of his earlier drawings and beginning again.

His stubborn faith was too much to bear. Bilbo made his excuses and fled.

That night, he sat at Thorin's beside and whispered to him for hours about nothing in particular: telling him how brave and loyal his nephews were, and reciting comfortable old stories about his childhood in the Shire, and asking all the idle questions that came into his mind. He hoped that one day Thorin would be able to answer them.

* * *

"...and we'll be on short commons within a week, never mind the goblins," Bard concluded.

The general meeting was Bilbo's greatest triumph to date. With supplies running short and the goblins defeated in detail, it would soon be time for the elves and men to take their leave of Erebor, but there were a hundred different details to be sorted out before than could happen, and Bilbo had flatly refused to carry any more messages between Dain and Thranduil; they would talk face to face, or not at all.

In the end, it was the two Mirkwood princes who attended the meeting, not Thranduil himself. The elder of the two hardly spoke, but the younger—Prince Legolas—charmed everyone in the room, except perhaps for Dain. He left arm was in a sling and he walked with a limp, but he was cheerful in spite of his injuries.

"Father will stay as long as need be, of course," he said now. "I'll stay with him, along with a few of his personal attendants, but my brother will take the rest of our army home to Mirkwood."

"Personal attendants," Dain said, eyebrows raised. "How very fine."

Legolas ignored him. "Mithrandir has assured us that Dol Goldur will pose no threat, but we'll be running patrols of our own along the borders. You shouldn't have any trouble in Laketown, Bard, at least not from the west."

"Give us a year," Bard said, "and Laketown will be nothing more than an outpost. One day you will visit Dale, prince, and it will be even greater than it was in Girion's day."

Dain's eyes narrowed. "Rebuild Dale? You've said nothing of this to us."

"And why should I? I do not answer to you, Master Dwarf, and we have as much right to Dale as you to the Mountain."

"As long as Thorin lives, he is king. Take up the matter with him."

"Not an easy task, under the circumstances. Laketown is in ashes. My people need a home. How long do you expect me to wait for permission from a dying king?"

"Thorin's not dying!" Bilbo said sharply.

All eyes turned towards him. He flushed under the sudden scrutiny. He hadn't spoken since the meeting began, and it was clear that they'd all forgotten he was there.

"Of course," Bard said. "And you speak for Thorin Oakenshield, then, in the meantime?"

Bilbo stared up at him blankly. "I, er. I didn't mean—that is to say, I'm not—"

"He does," Dain said firmly.

"Very well." To his credit, Bard sounded only slightly incredulous. "We will meet later, Mr. Baggins, to discuss the matter of Dale."

Bilbo couldn't believe this was happening. What was Dain thinking? What did it even mean? Surely if anyone was going to speak on Thorin's behalf it should be Dain himself, or Dwalin, or Balin, or Fili: anyone other than Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. He wasn't even a dwarf, for goodness sake! More than anything, he wanted to slip on the Ring, vanish from sight, and find some out of the way spot where he could to indulge his panic. But there was something in Dain's manner, in the solemn way he'd spoken, that kept Bilbo from fleeing or voicing his protests.

"Er, yes," he managed. "Well. That sounds fine."

It must have been the right response. Dain gave him an approving nod, and the talk turned to other matters, but for Bilbo, the rest of the meeting passed in an anxious blur. It was full dark by the time Legolas and Bard finally wandered off, still deep in conversation, and Dain vanished before Bilbo worked up the nerve to demand an explanation.

Thranduil wouldn't need him back right away, so Bilbo let his feet carry him along, his mind restless, fear an uncomfortable knot in his stomach. The days since the battle had been miserable, but at least he'd had work to keep him busy. It was good to feel useful. But making decisions in Thorin's name? Telling Bard whether or not he could rebuild Dale, and risking someone's wrath no matter what he decided? He would rather face down a Warg. Possibly even a whole pack of Wargs.

The torches were already lit, and cooking fires flickered here and there across the encampment. Bilbo found a seat on the cold, rocky ground near one of the smaller fires, letting the heat sink into his skin. He was always cold, these days. But a group of dwarves soon settled in around him, noisy and more than a little drunk. They looked at Bilbo was undisguised dislike, and Bilbo quietly slipped away only a few minutes later.

It was funny, in a way. Thorin could forgive Bilbo's theft of the Arkenstone, but dwarves that had never known either Thorin or Bilbo, who hadn't the slightest claim to a single piece of Erebor's treasure, had decided that the hobbit was a troublemaker at best and a traitor at worst. If Dain hadn't defended him, their dislike might have turned into something uglier. As it was, Bilbo bore the dark looks and mutterings with indifference. There were only thirteen dwarves whose opinions he gave a farthing for, and the Company had made it clear that they bore no grudge.

With that comforting thought in mind, Bilbo headed for one of the places where he felt assured of a warm welcome. If anyone could give him advice about speaking for Thorin, after all, surely it would be Thorin's heir.

* * *

When Bilbo stuck his head into the tent, Fili was curled up beside his brother, one hand wound through Kili's unbraided hair, talking quietly in Khuzdul.

"He's breathing easier," he said, when he finally acknowledged Bilbo's presence. "Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow."

Bilbo's heart ached. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?"

"We'd be glad of the company." Fili looked at him more closely, his gaze sharp. "Hard day?"

Bilbo didn't bother to say that all the days were hard. Fili knew that better than anyone. "I could use some advice, actually," he said instead. "If it would be a bother."

"Funnily enough, I have a lot of free time on my hands these days."

"It's just—Dain said something, at the meeting tonight. About Thorin."

"Tell me."

Bilbo hesitated. "He said that I spoke for him. I know that sounds ridiculous. But it was strange, the way he said it, and now Bard wants to meet with _me _to talk about Dale, and I haven't the foggiest idea what to do, or why Dain thinks I should manage it."

Fili whistled, long and low. "Uncle never does anything by halves, but I wouldn't have it expected that even of him—oh, don't look so grim. It's nothing terrible."

For some reason, Bilbo didn't feel very reassured.

"It's like this," said Fili. "When Dain says that you speak for Thorin, he means that you're the king's representative. But it's not just about making decisions. It's about—well, it's about trust, more than anything. Trust and affection. Glóin's wife manages his affairs in the Blue Mountains, so we say that she speaks for him. And before Thrain vanished, he said that Thorin would speak for him in all things. Does that make any sense?"

"No! I mean, I suppose so, but I don't want to be in charge of anything. I wouldn't even know where to start. Can't I give the job to someone else?"

Fili frowned. "It would be a dreadful insult. I expect that Uncle thought he was dying when he told Dain you would speak for him. Normally, a king only gives that right to his wife or his heir. A refusal would mean that you didn't value him enough to see his body buried, or his affairs put in order."

It was a horrible thought. "But I don't mean that at all!"

"Then don't refuse." Fili looked down at his brother, a strange expression on his face. "I speak for Kili, you know. That's why everyone has to do as I say and leave him alone, even though they think he's as good as dead no matter."

Comprehension dawned. "And that why Dain stood up for me. Because even if the dwarves don't trust Thranduil to take care of Thorin, it was my decision to make."

"Yes."

The idea that he had so much power over a king like Dain—it beggared belief. "Why didn't Thorin just let Dain speak for him?" he asked, making a desperate attempt to straighten out his thoughts. "Or you, since you're his heir?"

"Dain probably told him that Kili was dead."

Of course, how stupid of him not to realize. "He knew that you would be grieving."

Fili smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "He knew that I would be dead too. As for Dain: they may have been cousins, but Thorin never liked him very much."

"But Dain was willing to go to war for him." If he was surprised by the first part of Fili's reply, he hid it well.

"They lived in Erebor together as boys," said Fili. "Thorin thought Dain was weak. Passionless. He hated that; when Kili and I were children, he told us that no one could be a king without passion. _The dragon destroyed Erebor with fire_, he would say, _and we can't reclaim our home without it._"

"And when he asked Dain for help at the beginning of the journey, Dain turned him down," said Bilbo, an old memory resurfacing. "He said as much, that night at Bag End."

It was strange. Bilbo hadn't thought of Bag End in a long time—since the battle, at least, and maybe even before that. "What a little idiot I was back then," he said. "Fussing over cutlery and pocket handkerchiefs."

"Not an idiot," Fili said. "None of us ever thought that."

Bilbo looked politely incredulous.

"Well," he amended, "Kili and I didn't think that."

"What about Thorin?" Why had he chosen Bilbo, of all the unlikely people in the world, to speak for him, to be his voice?

Fili shrugged. "He thought that you didn't have any fire, either. He said once that you'd been born and raised in a toybox."

"A toybox?"

"Safe, comfortable. Boring. And because you seemed like a doll at first, a tiny little thing with blue eyes and no heart worth bothering about. His words, not mine. But you proved him wrong soon enough. A doll couldn't have stood his ground against Azog the Defiler, and a coward wouldn't have tried."

"You make it sound like something out of a story," Bilbo said. "What was I supposed to do—stand back and let him die?"

"Of course not," Fili said. "You burn brightest for his sake."

Bilbo took his leave soon after. It was late, and Thranduil would likely wake him up even earlier than usual tomorrow, just for spite. At the moment, he didn't much care. He slipped on the Ring and walked out past the edges of the encampment, far away from the tents and torchlight and watchmen, conversation and muffled laughter fading behind him. It was a still, cold night. Snow still blanketed the ground, but he found a comfortable rock to sit down on and stayed there for almost an hour, looking up at the moon and drawing idle lines in the snow. When he began to shiver, he wrapped his arms around himself and wished that it was Thorin who was holding him tight.

He carried Fili's parting words close to his chest, like a piece of jealously guarded treasure.

_You burn brightest for his sake._

Perhaps speaking for Thorin wasn't such a terrible burden, after all. He could always pester Gandalf for advice, and the rest of the Company as well.

"At least I can try," he said aloud. "I can't promise that I won't muck it all up, mind you. I'm only a hobbit—and not much of one, when it comes down to it—but I guess you knew that from the beginning."

Presently he got to his feet, dusted the snow off his clothes and headed back towards camp. He would stay at Thorin's side for the rest of the night, and in the morning—

—well, he would deal with the morning when it came.


	4. Aranrúth, Part 1

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 4

Aranrúth, Pt. 1

**A/N**: Most of the details of Tauriel's character are complete invention on my part, since she won't appear until the second movie. She's captain of the Mirkwood guard, and apparently she and Kili had some kind of courtly love thing going on—which I think is hilarious—and that's all the internet told me about her.

I didn't feel like using song lyrics for this chapter. Instead I dusted off my collection of useless First Age trivia and came up with _Aranrúth_, an ancient Elvish sword that belonged to Elu Thingol. The word translates to _king's ire. _On a similar note, the story that Legolas tells Bard in this chapter is revisionist history at its finest; the dwarves have their own stories about Thingol and the Silmaril, and they aren't nearly so flattering.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

Bilbo wasn't the only one to spend the night stargazing; Bard and Prince Legolas had wandered out on the opposite side of the camp, talking and laughing. They drew many stares, some hostile and some merely curious, but neither of them paid their onlookers any mind. Conversation came easy, and they traded stories about the battle, and archery—the merits of different kinds of fletching—and trade along the River Running. Legolas' limp worsened steadily, and his easy grace faded into a rough, dogged endurance, but Bard was tactful enough not to mention it. Eventually they settled on a rocky outcropping a few hundred feet away from the nearest guards.

"Better stay within shouting distance," Bard said, taking off his shabby fur coat and spreading it out on the ground. "No point in tempting fate. Here, sit down."

Legolas hummed noncommittally, and winced as he folded he wounded leg underneath him. "Won't you get cold?"

"I don't get cold," Bard said. "I just ignore it."

"Oh?"

He grinned crookedly. "When I was a little boy, I fell into Long Lake in the middle of winter and almost drowned. If the Master hadn't seen where I broke through the ice, I would have died. Nothing's felt cold since."

"You're fond of the Master," said Legolas. "Tell me about him."

"He's clever. Charming, when he wants to be. I thought him a great man when I was younger—not just because he saved my life, either."

"And now?"

Bard shrugged. "He's still clever and charming. But it wasn't easy, living in Esgaroth. We survived on a dragon's whim, and the fear drove lesser men away. It turned the Master hard. He takes what he can get, for himself and for our people."

He glanced at Legolas and then up at the clear night sky, the stars shining bright and cold in the mountain air. In a moment of uncharacteristic whimsy, he said "I think he would take the stars from the sky, if he thought it would profit him."

Legolas followed his gaze. "You know, one of our great kings once owned a star."

"What?" Bard asked. "I'm a bit old for fairytales, don't you think?"

"That star. That one, right there," Legolas said, pointing. "And it's not a fairy tale. It's true."

Bard grinned again, reminded of his two young cousins. Ever since they were babes, tiny girls with wide eyes and short braided hair, he had told them stories of their ancestor Girion, and the city where he was lord—Dale, the bright crown of the northeast, full of trumpets and merry bells and fine metalworks sent to market, trinkets and weapons alike. Their mother complained and covered their ears when he told them about the goblins wars, or hunts under the boughs of Greenwood the Great, but the girls loved to listen.

Or they had, at least, before the burning of Laketown. The glow and glamor of fairytale violence was a childish thing compared to the terror of dragon fire and the smell of charred flesh. Bard's smile faded as he thought of those sweet young girls, their parents slain, lonely among the survivors and homeless in the face of the winter storms. Smaug was dead in Long Lake, but he would haunt their nightmares, and there would be no one to hold them when they woke; their friends and neighbors were doubtless busy with their own grief.

Bard had killed the dragon but he was helpless against distance and bad dreams.

His jaw tightened with resolve. Smaug had been a fairytale monster made terribly real, but Bard was the heir of Girion, and one day his family would live in Dale, safe and strong. He would build a city for his cousins: better and brighter than any of his stories, a childish hope come to life. They would never want for anything again.

"Go on, then," he said to Legolas. "Tell me about your king and his star."

"It was many thousands of years ago," Legolas said. If he noticed the false cheer in Bard's voice, he said nothing. "In Beleriand. In those days my grandfather served Elu Thingol, our high king of old. We were a proud and powerful people, and Thingol came to possess a jewel of great price—one of three, and all more beautiful than anything in the world."

"Not more beautiful than this," Bard said. He pulled the Arkenstone out of one of his pockets and tossed it from hand to hand. "Don't laugh. There's no safer place for it."

"I'm not laughing," Legolas protested, straight-faced. "It's a very practical hiding place."

Bard held it up, admiring the way the light inside it flickered and changed. It shone even brighter in the starlight. "I don't think there was ever anything so fine," he said. "Thorin Oakenshield and his kin would have fought a war over this, remember? Surely this ancient king's treasure is nothing to compare."

"They were more beautiful than anything in the world," Legolas repeated. "Dozens of kings and princes died for them, and tens of thousands of our people—the desolation of Smaug would have been accounted but little by comparison. Thingol had been given one of them as a bride-price for his daughter, so he treasured it all the more, and he gave it to dwarven smiths so it could be set into a necklace."

"Oh," Bard said, knowingly. "I see where this is going."

Legolas shushed him. "The dwarves of Nogrod were great craftsmen, and they did as they were told, but once the work was complete they refused to return the jewel to Thingol. They wanted to take it as payment for their labors. Thingol would not cede to their demands, so they killed him and stole away with it."

"That's why you hate the dwarves."

"That's why we hate the dwarves," Legolas agreed.

"And the star?"

"The jewel passed from the dwarves to a mortal man. Years later it came to a great city, a stronghold of the elves, but war ever followed it. At the very last, a desperate princess cast into the sea. She was Thingol's granddaughter. The gods saved the princess and the jewel alike, and set the jewel up in the heavens; there it has been ever since."

"It's a good story," said Bard. "I like it. But why tell it to me?"

Legolas hesitated. Bard knew that he was a prince, and a fearless warrior, and had no doubt lived a dozen human lifetimes, but his eyes were soft in the starlight. He looked very young, and very gentle, when he said: "You are a better man than your Master, and someday you will be a great lord."

Bard snorted, inelegant. "You sound very certain of that."

"I am," said Legolas. "But—Bard, it will not be easy. It never is. You've spent your whole life in that bleak little town, waiting for death to come sweeping down from the mountain, and suddenly you are a man of war. You hold the wealth of a thousand such towns in the palm of your hand."

"So?" Bard clutched the Arkenstone tight in one battered hand, and the light shone through the gaps between his fingers. "One-fourteenth of the wealth of the Mountain, to rebuild our home and bury our dead. Though there are few enough bodies to bury. Most of them drowned in the lake, and they'll rot with the creature that killed them."

"Will you take a hammer to it, and pay your gravediggers and builders with the shards?"

"Of course not," Bard said tightly. "I'm not a brute. I would never destroy something so beautiful."

"A treasure like the Arkenstone does no good for cities and towns," said Legolas. "It would satisfy the vanity of any king, but your people would do better with a simple village bowman, so long as he has keen eyes and a brave heart."

"You—what are you saying? You want me to give the Arkenstone back to Thorin?"

"I would have you keep to your bargain."

"So you came here and told me a fairy tale, to trick me into agreeing," Bard said. "Like a child in need of a lesson on virtue." Sudden anger surged under his skin, hot and heady, and he gripped the Arkenstone with white-knuckled strength. What right did this cosseted prince have to take the side of the dwarves? Bard had earned his reward. Dale was his, and the Arkenstone too. He thought of his cousins again. They deserved to have some beauty in their lives, something precious to treasure.

"I was a friend to Lord Girion when he ruled Dale," Legolas was saying. "I wept when he was killed. I suppose that one day I will weep for you too, but I beg you not to hasten the day."

"And why should I be afraid? Thorin Oakenshield is as good as dead, no matter what the hobbit says. I saw him on the battlefield. No one could survive that."

"Father is a very good healer, and dwarves are a hardy folk. But if Thorin had died on the battlefield, I would have told you to bury the Arkenstone with his body. Bard, please listen to me: it's bad luck to keep the treasure of another man's heart."

"And what does it matter to you?"

"I told you. I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't believe you. You hardly know me, and we're certainly not friends." Bard jerked to his feet and began to pace. His heavy footsteps echoed against the rocks, unnaturally loud in the stillness of the night.

When Legolas finally spoke, he was still and quiet with unhappiness.

"My family owes Bilbo Baggins a favor," he said.

Bard stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"Father is doing his own part to repay the debt, and I must do the same."

"You—you owe him a favor," Bard echoed, and then he laughed, a harsh and rusty sound. "So the hobbit he sent you to do his dirty work. He wants to take back what he stole. I thought better of him than that, and of you."

"The halfling knew nothing of it," Legolas said. "He doesn't even know that we are in his debt. Father has forbidden me to tell him. But I see that I've offended you, and that was never my intention. I take my leave."

He stood and made to walk back to camp. Bard grabbed him by the arm as he turned to leave.

"That story. About the star. Was it true?"

"Yes," said Legolas, twisting out of his grasp. Something had changed in his manner, and he was once again a prince of a proud realm, cold and distant. "But Girion never believed me either. Good night, Master Bowman."

Bard watched him go, a string of curses lingering unspoken on his lips. Damn elves and treasure alike, he thought savagely. He had no use for either.

* * *

The morning came, as Bilbo had known it would, heralded by predawn light and an empty bucket thrown unceremoniously at his head.

"Water, now," Thranduil barked. "Fetch me breakfast while you're at it. And I've already sent that addlebrained dwarf to run my morning correspondence, so be sure to fetch me any replies."

Bilbo stumbled to his feet, yawning and dragging a hand through his curly hair. "Right," he said, too used to the Elvenking's haughtiness to be offended by it. He'd endured months of the same treatment from Thorin, after all. "I'll just—oh, I know that look. What else is there?"

Thranduil affected disinterest, but Bilbo could see the small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "A message from Bard. You're to meet him this afternoon, after the patrols return."

Bilbo made a face. He'd been hoping for at least a few days to prepare. "I'll be back in a little while," he said. And then, "How is he?"

It was the same question he asked every morning, and Thranduil never made any effort to be reassuring. The first time Bilbo had asked, Thranduil's robes had been stiff with dried blood, his hands bruised and trembling from hours of grueling surgery, and his only answer had been: "I'll allow that he might survive the day, but don't wager anything you're not willing to lose on the prospect."

Today, Thranduil knelt at Thorin's side and peeled back the bandages that were stretched across his chest, eyes narrowed. "More alive than dead," he pronounced. "And showing no more signs of infection. Which you can take to be progress, and a credit to my tender care. Weren't you just leaving?"

Bilbo obediently left. He was still tired, but Thranduil had sounded practically optimistic, and a bright, inexpressible emotion was lifting his heart and tugging him along.

"You're in a fine mood," Fili said, as Bilbo delivered his breakfast with a flourish. "Did your meeting with Bard go well, then?"

Bilbo shrugged. "Ask me again this afternoon. But Thorin's doing better this morning."

"I told you," Fili said. "Didn't I tell you?" But he glanced at his brother with a flicker of anxiety as he spoke, and Bilbo didn't need to be a healer to see that Kili was getting worse, not better.

"Fili," he began, helplessly. "Fili—"

"Don't say it." His tone brooked no argument, and he sounded so like Thorin that Bilbo couldn't help but obey.

The healers still said there was nothing to be done. Even Thranduil had looked at the young dwarf with pity, and addressed Fili with a gentleness that ran entirely contrary to his nature. It was a sickness of the mind, they said. He would wake up on his own or not at all, but every day he grew weaker from lack of food and water.

Dwarves were tough as mithril, as the saying went, and Kili was of hardier stock than most—it was no easy thing to kill a child of Durin's line. Perhaps that was why Azog the Defiler had acquired a taste for it.

The brief encounter left Bilbo's good mood scuffed and faded, but the shining core of his optimism survived. It was a lovely morning, the mountain rising stark and unadorned above the encampment, cold air sweeping down from the mountain and the sun shining bright and cheerful in the east. He had long since gotten used to the morning commotion—the press and noise of hundreds of people eating breakfast, talking, riding out for patrols, fetching water, shouting orders—but he soon noticed that things were even busier than normal, particularly on the broad, sloping corridor that had been unofficially set aside as Elvish territory. Half of Thranduil's captains and officers weren't anywhere to be found, and most of the rest were too busy to pay Bilbo any attention.

The captain of the Mirkwood guard, Tauriel, was at the center of the activity, clearing out her tent and giving orders to half a dozen different people at once. She and the princes had taken on the brunt of Thranduil's work after he had agreed to heal Thorin. Of all Thranduil's captains she was one of the few willing to speak face-to-face with the dwarves, so she and Bilbo had seen a great deal of one another in the days since the battle.

"The rest of the cavalry will screen us to the north," she was saying when Bilbo arrived. "Our patrols say that Bolg fled to the Ered Mithrin. If we are attacked, it will be from the foothills."

"And those of us remaining behind?" asked one of the soldiers.

"Discuss it with Prince Legolas. You'll report to him directly, in my absence." Tauriel glanced up and saw the hobbit hovering a few feet away. "That's all for the moment, gentlemen," she said. "You're dismissed. Mr. Baggins, don't just stand there hovering. I have something for you."

Bilbo waited while she rifled through the mess of parchment and weaponry that was scattered across her makeshift desk. "Here," she said at last, shoving a handful of papers in Bilbo's general direction. "King Thranduil will want to look through these."

"What's going on?" Bilbo asked. "Has something happened?"

"We're moving out," Tauriel said. "That meeting of yours cleared the way for it, and we're needed back home."

"Nothing serious, surely?" Gandalf had said very little about the nasty business at Dol Goldur, but something about the ruined fortress troubled Bilbo's mind, and he thought about it often. "Nothing to with—well, you know."

"No, the Necromancer is long gone. Damn it, where did Legolas put the rosters? He should have taken care of all of this last night. Mr. Baggins, there's a whetstone on the desk—do me a favor and sharpen these, will you?"

Bilbo awkwardly caught the two sheathed daggers that she tossed in his direction. "Er, I'm not very good at looking after weapons," he said. "Just so you know."

"So? You won't get better unless you practice."

"I have errands to run," he protested.

"You'll do better to wait here until things settle down," she said. "It's going to be chaos out there, and anyone who has messages for Thranduil will know to bring them to me."

Bilbo looked dubiously at the daggers. The handles were plain and the sheaths battered, but he had spent long enough with the dwarves of Thorin's company to recognize good steel when he saw it. He shrugged and set to work; the worst he could do was get the angle wrong, he supposed, and she could remedy that herself.

The rasp of the blade against the whetstone was a familiar sound. It made him think of evenings on the long road east, sitting around the campfire and listening to Dwalin tell war stories. "So why are you needed in Mirkwood?" he asked, when his curiosity finally got the better of him.

Tauriel was packing a battered old rucksack with all the efficiency of long practice, and didn't bother to look up. "Housekeeping," she said. "The kind that involves killing things."

Bilbo had seen enough of the Mirkwood guard to know that their hatred of the giant spiders was bitter and bloody. He didn't know what other creatures were lurking in the wilderness that surrounded Dol Goldur, but the long, suffocating darkness of the Company's march through Mirkwood was never far from his mind. He shuddered, and said "Better you than me."

"Yes," Tauriel laughed. "Although you managed well enough last time, from what I hear."

"Don't remind me." Battering his way through a spider-infested forest with a company of half-dead dwarves trailing behind him was not an experience he was eager to repeat. "Do you like it, then?"

"Do I like what?"

"Hunting. Killing things." He set the first dagger aside and began working on the second. "Living in Mirkwood, it seems like you're always at war."

"Not always," she said. "But yes, I like it. Or at least I like doing my duty, and seeing justice done. Why?"

Bilbo didn't meet her eyes. "Just wondering, is all."

It sounded so simple when she said it. She did her duty, and she obeyed her king. Bilbo had seen how fond she had grown of Kili during those long weeks in the dungeons, but she hadn't let that interfere with her job. Was it the same for him? Was it his duty to do as Thorin wanted, no matter what? If so, then it was his duty to tell Bard that he couldn't rebuild Dale, because Thorin would never forgive the man who had dared to march on Erebor.

It was an uncomfortable and unwelcome thought. Bilbo had spent the last week buried in the opinions and sentiments of the various factions within the encampment. The men of Esgaroth loved their newfound captain, and they would treat any insult to Bard as a deadly affront, but there was no way to keep Bard out of it. He had killed the dragon, and besides that he was Girion's descendent and the rightful lord of Dale. If he told Bard no, that would be the end of the fragile alliance between the men and the dwarves. But he couldn't say yes. Thorin would never have allowed it, and the dwarves would take it as an intolerable insult. It was Bard whom Thorin had hated the most, even before that miserable business with the Arkenstone—

Something in Bilbo's chest turned to ice, his hands tightening convulsively on Tauriel's dagger.

The Arkenstone.

Bard still had it.

In the long aftermath of the battle, the Arkenstone's current whereabouts had been the last thing on Bilbo's mind. Judging from their complacency, the rest of the dwarves no doubt assumed that it had been returned to Thorin, and not without cause: after all, that had been the bargain.

If word got out that it was still in the hands of men, Bilbo hardly dared to imagine what would happen. The dwarves of the Iron Hills had been willing to go to war over the wretched thing, and Bilbo knew that on the matter of the Arkenstone they would be as grim and unyielding as the mountain itself.

Confound it all, what was he to do? He had to get the Arkenstone back, but he couldn't grant Bard the lordship of Dale—Thorin would never have allowed it. And what else did he have to bargain with? Not for the first time, he wished that he had never seen the Arkenstone glimmering in the dark, that it had been left for Thorin or one of the other dwarves to find.

"Prince Legolas told me about your meeting with Bard," Tauriel said, startling Bilbo out of his dismal thoughts. Packing finished, she tossed the rucksack into an out-of-the-way corner, and it landed with a muffled _thump_.

"Everyone knows about my meeting with Bard," Bilbo muttered.

"That's what happens when you get tangled up with royalty. Look, why don't you talk to Mithrandir about it? You travelled with him, didn't you?"

"I've thought about it. About talking to him, I mean. But it's not—"

"But nothing," Tauriel interrupted. "Look, halfling. You made a fool out of me in Mirkwood. I told my king that his prisoners were secure, and you slipped out with thirteen dwarves in tow, easy as you like. But you had your loyalties, just as I had mine. And you saved—well. Never mind that."

She cleared her throat and carried on. "The point is, I like you, in spite of it all. If I had time to sit you down and have a conversation about duty and honor and what you owe your king, perhaps I would. But I have an army to see to, and you only have a few hours before you're going to be busy settling the fate of nations."

"Don't say it like that!"

She smiled a little, tolerantly amused; a friendlier version of Thranduil. "The fate of cities, then. So go talk to Mithrandir."

Bilbo supposed she was right. Some measure of his earlier resolve returned to him. If anyone could sort out such a miserable tangle, it was Gandalf. Maybe the wizard could convince Bard to give up the Arkenstone, or to give the mastery of Dale to someone else.

He took a deep breath and got to his feet. "I'll take those messages to Thranduil first," he said. "Oh—here's your other dagger."

She tested the edge and made a satisfied noise.

"Not bad," she said. "Good luck to you, Mr. Baggins. We're riding out this afternoon, and I don't suppose we'll meet again, but I wish you and your king every happiness."

Bilbo bowed and left, the sheaf of papers in his hands.

Outside her tent, preparations for the army's departure continued apace, and Bilbo was hard-pressed to keep from being trampled. In the hurry and confusion, even keen-eyed elves might not see a single small hobbit.

He made it back to Thorin's pavilion none worse for the wear, but one of Tauriel's messages put Thranduil in a contrary mood, and when Bilbo asked his help in finding Gandalf—who was notoriously hard to find even under normal circumstances—Thranduil offered only vague and useless advice. Bilbo spent the rest of the afternoon tracking the wizard down, miserably aware that his meeting with Bard was looming steadily nearer.

It was only many months later, when he had reason to think of Tauriel of Mirkwood again, that he realized what a strange benediction she had given him.

* * *

Though Bilbo had crossed his fingers for clear, straightforward advice, he knew Gandalf too well to be surprised when the wizard had nothing to offer but disparaging comments and vague philosophy.

"Can't you just tell me what to do?" Bilbo asked, still smarting over the time he'd wasted trying to find him in the first place.

"Absolutely not. You don't have the luxury of thoughtlessly obeying orders anymore. I'm not sure anyone ever does, for that matter." Gandalf blew a series of smoke rings, looking far more satisfied than Bilbo thought he had any right to.

"You must make your own decisions now," he added, in between puffs of smoke. "As you did in that nasty business with the Arkenstone."

"Oh, yes," Bilbo said. "Because that turned out so extraordinarily well."

Gandalf glared at him, grey eyes sharp underneath his bushy eyebrows. "Don't be pert, Bilbo Baggins. If you really want my advice, here it is. Think about who you serve."

"Thorin," Bilbo said promptly. "That hasn't changed, not since we first set out."

Gandalf hummed in that mild, infuriating way of his. "Of course. Thorin, King under the Mountain. So it was a different Bilbo Baggins who stole the king's most prized possession and handed it over to his enemies?"

"It wasn't like that," Bilbo said, stung. But soon he realized what Gandalf was driving at, and his shoulders slumped. "But you're right. It wasn't just Thorin. I hated all of it."

"All of what?" Gandalf pressed.

"The fighting. The idea that so many decent people might end up dying over some damnable pile of treasure, just because Thorin was too stubborn to negotia—oh." Bilbo winced when he realized what he'd said. "Oh, Gandalf, no. I can't go behind his back like that. I can't betray him again, not after he trusted me to speak for him."

"Can't you?"

"No!"

"Then you've already decided what to do," said Gandalf, "and you don't need advice from me. But you would do well to remember that Smaug was not the only evil in this world, nor the greatest. I'm afraid that things in the east are going to get worse before they get better."

"And?"

"And you need to consider very carefully," Gandalf said, "that nothing—no dragon, necromancer, or creature of evil—has more wounded this unhappy world than the pride of kings and the glitter of jewels."

If only Thorin was awake. If only Bard had been willing to wait a few more days! But the elves were leaving, and Bard's men were growing restless. A decision had to be made, and Bilbo was the one stuck making it.

On the one side there was Thorin's trust, his gruff conversation, the love and longing in his voice when sang of Erebor. There was good company around a campfire, Thorin's strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, a rough kiss pressed against his curls. Bilbo could see it all so clearly: he would be assured of welcome in Erebor, and the friendship of its king, no matter how many long years passed by. He would visit often, even after his return to the Shire, and Bofur would always be waiting in Laketown to greet him and drag him back to Erebor, teasing and telling outrageous stories all the while. One day he would meet Gloin's wife and young son, and Thorin's sister Dís, who all the dwarves spoke of with enormous fondness and respect. He would have a family of his own, fierce and strange and entirely wonderful.

On the other side, there was—nothing. Thorin had absolved him for one betrayal, but Bilbo wasn't naïve enough to believe that he would so forgiving a second time. He still remembered the look in Thorin's eyes that day on the walls of Erebor, and he never wanted to see him look that way again.

"_Take him, if you wish him to live, and no friendship of mine goes with him."_

It wasn't fair, and Bilbo felt frustrated tears welling up behind his eyes, but he stubbornly refused to cry. He was a grown hobbit, not a spoiled little child. It didn't matter how tired he was, or how much the long days of fear and worry weighed on him. It didn't matter that he was being forced, one more miserable time, to betray either his king or his principles.

What use did he have for principles, anyway? What had they ever gained him?

What were they compared to Thorin Oakenshield's affection?

"You're right," Bilbo said, suddenly. "I've made up my mind. I owe Thorin my life a dozen times over, and I won't betray him again. It's my job to speak for him, and I promised that I would do the best I could. I can't let Bard have Dale."

The smoke rings stopped. Gandalf looked at him searchingly, and when Bilbo flushed and stared at the ground, unable to meet his eyes, the wizard sighed.

"I've already said. You must make your own decisions."

His disappointment was obvious, but Bilbo couldn't bring himself to care. He refused to lose Thorin again, not when he was so close to getting him back—not when they were finally home, the battle won and Azog dead at last. For more than a century, the dwarves of Erebor had been a lost and ruined people, welcome nowhere, their princes and great warriors reduced to shoeing horses and forging nails. Now they were lords and kings once more, and Bilbo wouldn't dishonor them by forcing them into a treaty with a man they disliked and distrusted.

Besides, Bilbo thought, how strong could Bard's attachment be? He had lived in Esgaroth his entire life. Dale was nothing more than a story to him, a ruined city; the home of distant, unfamiliar kin.

Surely the man would be willing to see reason.


	5. Aranrúth, Part 2

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 5

Aranrúth, Pt. 2

**A/N**: I'm so sorry about the long delay! I have no excuse, except that real life has been unpleasant and I'm possibly the slowest writer in the world. And for anyone who's sick of reading about elves, I can promise you this: the next chapter will be from Thorin's POV.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

The right flank was crumbling, but not yet broken.

The enemy had scaled the slopes to the south, and it was on the right of Thranduil's army that they were pressing the hardest, while on the sloping ground before them the goblins charged again and again, forced back every time but at terrible cost. The bodies of the Elvenking's dead soldiers were piled before the living, a gruesome barricade, and in between assaults the quickest and boldest of the elves slipped out beyond it to scavenge the field for arrows.

It was in one such lull that Thranduil heard the familiar voice of his youngest son, and he glanced back to see Legolas walking towards him, stopping every few steps to clap someone on the back or drag bodies to the barricade to shore up a weak point. He was wounded—a bloodstained, filthy piece of cloth wrapped tight around his left arm, which hung useless at his side—but he kept his pain well-hidden.

For one brief moment, Thranduil let himself be proud. Despite his youth, Legolas was a hardened warrior and one day he would make a fine commander. Many of his comrades had never seen battle, and Legolas was sometimes awkward in his attempts to comfort and reassure, but he looked so very like his grandfather that Thranduil's heart ached to think of it.

"Hello, father," Legolas said, finally coming to stand by his side. "How fare you?"

Thranduil reached up to brush a tangle of hair out of his son's face. The gesture left a streak of blood across Legolas' forehead, and he let his gauntleted hand drop to his side. "You have eyes, child. Look around you."

Legolas obeyed, mouth tightening as he took in the ragged line of elves, the few remaining guards that stood in a loose circle around their king, the goblins down in the valley massing for another charge. One of Azog's commanders was clearly visible among the mob, mounted on a giant warg and bulling his soldiers into some semblance of order.

"Namirion wants to fall back along the ridge, close to the mountain," Legolas said, turning back to glance questioningly at Thranduil. "I told him that it was no good, but if you want—"

"No," Thranduil said, sharply. "You did well. Your brother should not be so quick to give ground. Thorin and Dain are fighting in the valley, and some of our own fight alongside them. If Bard loses the eastern spur, or if we fall here, the dwarves will be overrun and all of us surrounded. We stand on Raven Hill or not at all."

Legolas nodded. He had come to the same conclusion. "Here they come," he said, nodding down towards the goblin army.

A cacophony of howls and clashing metal heralded the charge, and Thranduil snapped out a few last minute orders before taking up his sword once again. Beside him, Legolas notched an arrow to his bow.

"My last," he said, ruefully. "I shall have to make do with my long-knives after this."

"You and your knives. Tauriel has been a bad influence, and I despair of you both."

"No despair, ada_." _Legolas smiled, bright and beautiful, as the first volley of arrows whistled above them. "We will not die today."

Then battle was upon them once more. Thranduil's world narrowed to the blood pounding in his heart, the crush of bodies surrounding him, the familiar weight of his sword and the feel of it as he cut through flesh and bone. Legolas was beside him, quicker if not so deadly, and more than once a goblin cut past Thranduil's guards only to see a flash of blond hair, and die with a knife buried in his gut.

Still the goblins surged forward, urged on by their commander and their own wild reckless hate, trampling the bodies of the dead into the rocks and dust. Thranduil fought on. They were hard-pressed, but if only the line could hold—and it would hold, it would, his captains were brave and they would not falter in battle, they would fight for every inch of barren ground—

Far to his right, a horn sounded the retreat.

He whirled around, shock like a sharp blow to the chest, and that was his undoing. A moment of distraction, and a warg-rider leapt at his unprotected back, tearing at his guardsmen and knocking him to the ground. The warg loomed over him, teeth bared, and Thranduil met its stare with a snarl of his own, like a wild thing cornered. He would not die like this, helpless and weak, his kin led to the slaughter at the foothills of bedeviled Erebor. He would not leave his children without their father and his people without their king.

The warg's stinking breath was hot against its face. It bent towards his unprotected throat. Thranduil cursed and struggled, unable to breathe, to fight back.

And then there was nothing but pain, sudden and shattering. Distantly, he heard a howl of agony, a body slamming against the rock beside him, the choked whines of a dying beast. The world was black around him.

The next thing Thranduil knew, someone was pushing the warg's body off of him, and then his guardsmen were by his side. They were still pressing him back, dragging him away from the battle. He tried to protest, but there was no air in his lungs. All around them the elves were falling back, even as the goblins made their final howling charge up the slopes.

Through the haze of confusion and pain, he heard their commander roar "Take him!" He thought that the goblins meant to take him prisoner, but a moment later he realized the truth was far worse.

Kneeling in the midst of the fallen, beside the warg he had killed, was Legolas. And the goblins were advancing on him.

Thranduil reeled. "No," he gasped, but the name vanished into the screams and clamor. "My son—"

No one heard. No one recognized the prince among the bodies that littered the field. Thranduil watched, helpless, as Legolas tried to stand, scrabbling in the dirt for any weapon at hand.

A last volley of arrows, but it was too late. The goblins crested the hill and surged forward. They tore into the last of the retreating elven soldiers, hewing the wounded where they lay. But not Legolas. The goblin commander dismounted beside the prince, crouched over him, grabbed his hair close to the scalp and yanked him close. His mouth twisted into an ugly, sharp-toothed grin.

Thranduil knew what goblins did to their prisoners. _Not my son_, he thought, numb to the carnage that pressed in around him. _Not my little prince._

At last, one of Thranduil's guards saw what was happening. His eyes widened in horror, and in one swift moment he cast aside his sword and put a horn to his lips. The note split their air of the summit, a rallying cry that stilled that battle for one small moment. "To your king!" he cried. "Rally to the hill!"

The words cost him his life. A goblin cut his throat while the horn blast still echoed on the foothills.

But the soldiers obeyed. The goblin advance ground to a halt, broken on the swords and spears of the ragged line, and Thranduil threw himself into the fray even as the last of his guards died in his defense. He knew, in some cold distant part of his mind, that they would retake the hill. The weight of the battle had shifted in their favor. But not in time. The goblins would kill his son, or capture him, and there was nothing Thranduil could do to stop it.

Then Thorin's halfling appeared out of thin air behind the enemy commander, and stabbed him in the back.

Thranduil faltered. He could scarcely believe his own eyes, so unexpected was the sudden attack, and the goblins shared his shock. Their commander looked down in blank surprise at the glowing blue blade protruding from his chest, hands scrabbling at his ribcage as he fell, dragging the halfling down behind him. The halfling tried ineffectually to tug his dagger free, gave up, and grabbed a sword lying abandoned on the field. It was too heavy for him, but Legolas took it gladly and lurched to his feet, though one of his legs almost gave out beneath him.

The goblins fell back, uneasy. Their confusion only lasted a moment, but even as Thranduil carved a path towards his son, another strange thing happened—the halfling looked up and stared off into the distance, eyes widening.

"The eagles!" he cried, voice thin and almost inaudible even to Thranduil's sharp ears. "The eagles are coming!"

The goblins reached him before Thranduil did, and the halfling was knocked aside by a ferocious blow. He vanished before he hit the ground, but Thranduil had no time to think about that. His soldiers were already pushing the goblins back, and Thranduil caught Legolas as the younger elf staggered and fell, blood dripping from his arm and wounded leg. "I've got you," he said, roughly. "You're safe now."

It was patently untrue. Battle was still raging around them, even as the eagles swept down from the heights and others took up the halfling's cry. Legolas choked out a laugh and reached out with one bloody, trembling hand.

"Father," he breathed, and his eyes flickered shut. "The halfling."

Thranduil gathered Legolas up in his arms. The goblins scattered, the eagles clawing and beating at their backs. Down in the valley, Thranduil could hear the dwarven armies howling, a sound of terrible grief. So Thorin had fallen, then, or perhaps his heirs.

Another howl, deeper, and of a different kind. A single voice, instead of many, the cry of some great beast full of mindless rage. Beorn. Such strange allies, and Thranduil swore to himself that they would be well-rewarded if they survived the day, the halfling most richly of all.

He handed his son to the nearest of his soldiers. "See to it that my son is kept safe," he said. "And order the heralds to sound a charge."

So down into the valley the surviving elves rushed, horns and war cries ringing wild in the air, and Thranduil at their head, pitiless with rage. He would slaughter the creatures who dared to harm his child.

* * *

Seven days later, the battle won and most of the wounded cared for, the greater part of the elven army marched out. They left in the late afternoon, as the shadows were just beginning to lengthen, and neither Thranduil nor Legolas rode with them. They had a promise to keep. It fell to Legolas' eldest brother to command the army, at least in name, and Tauriel to run it.

It was Tauriel who had spent the last twelve hours caught up in a frenzy of planning, confusion, and harried orders; as she once told Bilbo, anyone who believed that armies moved on a whim had never known war. She realized only belatedly that she hadn't seen the crown prince all day, and she kept up a stream of silent curses while she crisscrossed the encampment in search of him.

Her irritation was mingled with pity; Namirion and Thranduil hadn't spoken since the first night after the battle, when they had desperately worked together to keep the dwarven king alive. It would be a long time before Thranduil forgave the crown prince for sounding the retreat on Raven Hill. For his part, Namirion had been wrecked with guilt since he had first seen his brother carried off the field, and he was rarely seen outside the healers' tents, where he worked night and day tending to the wounded. She found him at last at the far edge of the valley, looking up at the southern spur of the mountain.

"Time to go, your highness," she said. "I've said our farewells to King Thranduil and your brother."

He jumped back a little at the sound of her voice, too exhausted to pay attention to his surroundings. "I'll be a long presently," he said.

"No. We need to leave now." Tauriel wasn't accustomed to giving orders to the royal family, especially not Namirion. But he was pale and wrecked in a way that she had never seen, and in no state to be left on his own. "Come along, Namirion. We will be home soon."

"I'm not a child, and you needn't patronize me," he said. "It's only—I can't stop thinking about it. I see it every time I close my eyes."

Tauriel stepped closer and pressed her hands to his shoulders. "I know. That's the way of it, after a battle. I had nightmares for weeks after my first skirmish."

"You're just a soldier," he said. "A Silvan guard. It's not the same for you."

Tauriel frowned. "Do you think your father and grandfather never thought of the dead? That they never lay awake at night and wept?"

"My grandfather was killed at Dagorlad," he said flatly, "because he would not abandon his men. I left my brother to torment and death on the battlefield. My own father has no further use for me."

"The king was wrong to give you a command," Tauriel said. "You can't bear all the blame."

Namirion finally looked at her, tearing his eyes away from the distant silhouette of Raven Hill, shadowed in the fading winter light. "Can't I?" he said. "I suppose not. But I will dream of it until I die."

"Yes," she said. She understood, even if she not a proud Sindarin prince. "But come along. We will leave now, and march through the night."

She clapped him on the back and stepped away. He trailed behind her all the way back to the gathered army, and kept close by her side when they marched out at last; they rode side by side at the head of the column.

Even with Namirion's grief to contend with, Tauriel was glad to be back among her own people again, with duties to fulfill and orders to obey. There was something easy and uncomplicated about that, and she missed Mirkwood more than she would have thought possible. She belonged in the woodlands where she had lived and fought since she was just a girl, in the caves and among the green boughs. Erebor, and the flat desolate land that surrounded it, felt bleak and foreign to her.

But as little as she liked to admit it, a part of her heart was bound up in the mountain, or at least in the rough, reckless warriors who had set out to reclaim it. She glanced back one last time as they passed out of sight of the mountain. As they reached the outskirts of the Long Marshes, she said a silent prayer for Kili, heartfelt, the words worn smooth with constant use.

_I am no child of yours, Aulë, but think kindly of one who is—a boy of Durin's blood, best beloved of his king and kin. _

"What are you thinking about?" Namirion asked.

"Kili," she said, surprised into honesty. "One of Thorin's heirs."

"The dark-haired one? They said he died over the dwarf king's body."

"No. He still lives."

Namirion's eyes narrowed. "You are fond of him, then."

She nodded, but offered nothing further. Under ordinary circumstances, Namirion would have harried her endlessly about it; that was his way. He craved knowledge like an ordinary creature might crave food or water. Since he was child, he had torn himself to pieces over philosophy, and his brother's love for mortal like Girion and Bard had baffled him. Now the captain of his royal guard had fallen prey to the same affliction, and she braced herself for a flurry of questions and demands.

But Namirion only sighed and looked down, fingers tangled in his horse's mane. "I'm sorry," he said, and Tauriel stared. Had he ever apologized to her before? "It must be lonely."

And then, several minutes later: "Are you in love with him?"

That, at least, was more like the prince she knew.

She shook her head. "Not in the way you mean. Not like you and your wife, or lovers in the histories. But Kili makes me smile. I like being around him. I like the way he looks when he laughs."

"And how he fights for those he loves," Namirion said, and Tauriel knew that he was thinking about Legolas again. But it was true, of course.

"Yes," she said. "I like that too. But your highness, you can't let—wait. What was that?"

She raised her arm sharply, signaling the column to a halt. "Quiet," she snapped, and the elves around her fell silent. "Do you hear that?"

Namirion paled. Horns were sounding in the distance, first to the north and then the east.

"No," he whispered. "No. It's not possible."

Tauriel swore. It had been too much to hope that they would make it home unscathed. "Your highness, if I may?"

He nodded wordlessly. Tauriel whirled her horse around, gesturing sharply to her second-in-command. "Merenlír, guard the prince. You're in command until I return."

She urged her horse into a canter and rode down the long curve of the road, then turned north and out into the Desolation. The horns were silent, but as she approached the distant line of cavalry she heard the whinnying of horses, and screams cut short. She saw a handful of scouts riding towards the main body of the army, and waved them towards her.

"Report," she ordered, as they drew to a halt.

"They're shooting from the marshes," one of the scouts said. "Hiding behind the tussocks and trees, picking us off one by one. But I think there's a larger force moving behind them. If they get to the road—"

"—they'll cut us off. Damn it to the Void, I thought we were finished with this!" Tauriel bit her lip, thinking fast. "Very well. You get back to Erebor. Take your best riders and raise the alarm. We'll do what we can here."

The scout nodded. "Best of luck, captain," she said. "We'll rouse them from that mountain, never you fear."

The scouts turned east, along the road and deep into the gathering gloom; Tauriel returned to Namirion, quick as could be. She rode up to him in a cloud of dust, breathing hard. "Your highness, we're about to be attacked," she said. "It may be only a small force, but we must assume the worst."

"Very well," Namirion said. He sounded calm, but his hands were trembling, and his blue eyes were wide with panic. He was no coward, Tauriel knew. But he'd made the wrong decision at Raven Hill, and it had ruined him for command.

Merenlír intervened. "What are your orders, captain?"

"Get the wounded to the center of the formation and keep moving," she said, grateful for his good timing. "We've got the river to one side and the marshes to another, so we'll spread out along the road. The goblins will try to make us cluster together, but we can't let them. If they surround us, or pin us down, we're dead."

"The scouts?" Merenlír asked.

"Bring them in close. Those marshes are no place for cavalry and we don't have the men for pitched battle. It's a job for the archers until we reach our own borders, or reinforcements for Erebor arrive."

"Do you think they'll come?" Namirion asked. His hands were clenched white-knuckled around his reins, and his horse, sensing its rider's discontent, fretted and tossed its head.

Tauriel smiled tightly, and said nothing.

* * *

Bard stared. "You're not serious."

"I am." Bilbo was deathly pale, but he didn't stammer or shake. "I'm sorry. It's my decision."

It took a monumental act of will to keep from lashing out and knocking the hobbit across the tent. The impulse startled him; he had never thought himself a violent man, not outside of battle.

"Who are you to deny my people a home?" he managed at last.

"I'm not doing anything of the sort," Bilbo said. "You have Laketown. And no one's saying that Dale shouldn't be rebuilt. I'm just saying that _you _can't be the one to rebuild it. Shouldn't that be the Master's job, anyway?"

"The Master isn't the one who killed the dragon, and he's not heir to a lord. Dale isn't his to claim."

"Well, the Arkenstone isn't yours either," said Bilbo, straightening to his full height of just over four feet. "That hasn't stopped you from keeping it."

"I wasn't the one who used king's treasure as a bribe," Bard said, glowering. "You've a talent for stealing the birthrights of your betters."

"Oh, for the love of—I am sick to death of everyone holding that over my head! I should have saved myself the bother and let the lot of you go ahead and kill one another. You and Thorin and Thranduil were all being perfect idiots." Bilbo's eyes widened, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just said, but he took a deep breath and forged ahead regardless. "If I hadn't bought you time with the Arkenstone, Thorin would have gone to war the moment Dain arrived, and Azog would have stumbled over the battlefield and slaughtered us all. Besides, you're the one that hasn't kept his end of the bargain. You agreed to trade the Arkenstone for a fourteenth share of the treasure, and Dale was never part of the negotiations."

Bard's palms itched. His dreams turned to ash, just like Laketown, and all because of a foolish little creature who had no right to be meddling in the business of Elves and Men.

"Very well," he said, icily. "Have it your way. But my men and I aren't going anywhere. Whatever hold you have on the dwarves and the elves, it won't long survive Thorin. Maybe the blond boy will be willing to see sense."

For the first time, Bilbo looked truly angry. "Leave Fili out of this," he snapped. "He's suffered enough as it is."

"We've all suffered. And the men of Esgaroth will sit at the foot of this mountain until you've suffered a good deal more."

One of Bard's soldiers chose then, of all the wretched moments, to stick his head inside the tent. "Sir—"

"Not now," Bard growled.

"Sir, there's been an attack."

A moment of stunned silence.

"Tell me," Bard said, at the same time Bilbo exclaimed "But I thought the goblins were dead!"

"A sortie from the north," said the soldier. He was a childhood friend, and Bard idly remembered that as wild young guardsmen they had gone drinking together every night. "Goblins came down from the foothills into the Desolation, and tangled with the elves on the road through the Long Marshes. The crown prince sent some of his horsemen back to report, but the army is pressing on to Mirkwood."

"And the goblins?"

"Spread out across the marshes. They won't show themselves, but the prince's messengers say that there's a second force moving in behind. By now the road's been taken, like as not."

Bard muttered something ugly under his breath. "How did they get past our patrols? No—never mind that now. Pass word to Dain. If the goblins have a stronghold in the foothills of the Ered Mithlin, they can attack the road at will, and in force."

In less than half an hour, Bard's tent had been transformed into a council of war. Dain had brought another dwarf with him—Dwalin? One of Thorin's companions, at any rate—and Legolas stood with his brother's messengers. The Arkenstone and Dale were forgotten, at least for the moment, but Dain had insisted on Bilbo's presence. Bard didn't bother to protest. He had more important things on his mind.

There was an awkward silence as they all stared around the hastily-cleared space at one another. It escaped no one's notice that, as allies went, they weren't particularly friendly with one another.

"We really must stop meeting like this," Legolas said, startling a few scattered laugh out of the council.

It was enough to shatter the tension. "I suppose it was too much to hope that Bolg would slink back to Gundabad and leave us be," said Dain.

"Assuming that it is Bolg, but we don't know that," Bilbo chimed in. "We don't know much of anything, actually."

"He escaped the battle after his father was killed, and our hunters haven't been able to track him," Legolas said.

"Yes, thank you for telling us what we already know," said Bard, but there was no real heat in his voice. In fact, he felt better than he had in days. Steadier, more clear-headed. More like himself. "Can we focus on the matter at hand?"

"Doesn't matter if it's Bolg or not," Dwalin said. "The Desolation's a miserable place for an ambush. Not enough cover, even in the marshes." He nodded in Legolas' direction. "They'll lose as many men to the land as to your brother's archers. And they should've waited until your army was further from Erebor."

Bard frowned. "I'm not sure it matters. I don't have anyone to send."

It was a wretched thing to say, after all the Elvenking had done for him, and for the people of Laketown. But Bard didn't have a proper army to command, and most of his best fighters were dead or grievously wounded. "If the goblins are strong enough to attack the road to Mirkwood, then they might go after the Laketown survivors," he added. "They've gotten past us once already."

"Besides which we should have gone home days ago," said Bard's old drinking friend. "We've lingered here too long. My _wife _is back there, and all our fighters sitting here with their thumbs up their—"

"Shut up," Bard said, brusque. "Do you think I don't know that?" He forced himself not to think of the children waiting back in Laketown, vulnerable once again, this time because of his own damnable ambition. "But right now there's army of elves between the goblins and Laketown. Who knows for how long, if we don't come to their aid?"

"We can't," the man said. Bard glowered at him. "I'm sorry, sir! But it's true. There's nothing we can do."

Dain and Dwalin were whispering together, apparently arguing over something. "Ask Bilbo," Dwalin growled at last. "I'll do it, as long as he orders me to."

"Order you to what?" Bilbo asked, sounding alarmed.

"I have two hundred dwarves armed and ready to march," Dain said. "Dwalin will command them, if you order it."

Bard stared. "You would help the elves? You must be joking."

"I don't joke, Master Bowman."

"Dwalin, explain," Bilbo said.

Dwalin shrugged his massive shoulders. "We just got rid of the bastards," he said. "Not about to let them come slinking back on account of a few goblins. Put us on the road behind them, and we'll crush the enemy between us. You give the word, Mister Baggins."

"Yes," Bilbo said, brows furrowed. "If you think it best. I trust you."

Dain sighed. Dwalin looked at him with grim triumph. "I'll pass word to the lads," he said, and bowed to Bilbo before striding out of the tent. Bilbo looked more alarmed by that than anything else that happened so far.

"Wait," Legolas called. "I'm coming with you."

Dwalin turned back, scowling. "I've no use for an injured princeling."

"No, but you've use for someone who knows Mirkwood signs and signals. How else will you communicate, if the road has been taken?"

Dwalin huffed. "As you like, but don't expect us to coddle you."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Legolas said, a trifle sarcastically.

Bard watched them go, something tight and uncomfortable settling in his chest. Legolas hadn't looked at him once. He dismissed the thought as childish, but the emotion—something uncomfortably like guilt—remained.

He tore his gaze away and glanced across the tent at Bilbo. The hobbit's eyes were wide, and his face pinched with unhappiness.

"You look about how I feel," Bard said. "Useless."

Bilbo smiled a little at that, but the expression faded fast. "Excuse me," he said. "If there's any unpleasantness coming, I need to go warn Thranduil."

It was obvious to everyone around him that he really meant "I need to look after Thorin", but Bard let him go without a fuss. He had his own men to look after, and Laketown to think of as well.

"Back to work," he said, bitterly. "And so much for peace."

* * *

When Bilbo returned to Thorin's pavilion, he was surprised to find that someone had beaten him there. Legolas and Thranduil were in the midst of conversation, words quick and light and entirely foreign. Bilbo hesitated at the entrance, but Thranduil waved him in impatiently. He settled down in his usual spot beside Thorin, who lying silent as ever, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling steadily.

"I'm sorry I was away for so long," Bilbo said, whispering so as not to disturb the elves behind him. "It's been such a wretched day, and now there's been another attack, and I've sent Dwalin off to help the elves. I think I did right, though maybe you wouldn't agree."

Thorin didn't reply, of course. Bilbo was used to that. After years of living alone at Bag End he was accustomed to talking to himself when there was no one else to chat with, and it was easy as breathing to sit beside Thorin and tell him about his day, or complain about Thranduil—usually while Thranduil himself was present, because Thorin would appreciate that sort of rudeness when it came to the Elvenking—and ramble about anything else that came to his mind.

"I'm sick to death of war and fighting, Thorin," he said, taking one of Thorin's calloused hands in his own and pressing a kiss to his palm. "I wish that you were here to fix things."

There was a lull in the conversation behind him, and Bilbo looked over his shoulder to see Thranduil and Legolas embracing. It was more affection than Bilbo had ever seen Thranduil show before, and the gesture surprised him. Certainly Thranduil hadn't been so affectionate to the crown prince, at least not in Bilbo's presence, and Bilbo had assumed that the Thranduil regarded his sons with the same casual contempt he had for the rest of the world.

But Thranduil's face was drawn and his hands clenching and unclenching around the rough fabric of Legolas' cloak, as if he couldn't bear to let go. Legolas murmured something, and finally Thranduil stepped back and nodded sharply.

"We'll be back by morning," Legolas said, catching Bilbo's gaze. "One way or another."

"Good luck," Bilbo said, trying his best to smile. He liked the Mirkwood prince well enough. In fact, he was occasionally surprised by his own fondness, because there was no good reason for it; they spoke to one another only occasionally, and Legolas was polite but distant. Perhaps it was only that he was an elf. All the elves—especially Thranduil, for all his pettiness—made Bilbo feel absurdly young and childish and overawed.

Legolas smiled back, and took his leave. Thranduil lingered a few moments longer and then stormed out himself, and Bilbo was left alone with Thorin.

He tried to settle, to calm his racing thoughts, but it was no use. He was wound tight with nerves, from the wretched meeting with Bard and the knowledge that his friends were about to march into battle. Bilbo had fought trolls and goblins and spiders on the long road to Erebor, and hated every minute of it. Now he realized that waiting helplessly for news was a hundred times worse.

Well, there was no point in trying to sleep. He stood and paced instead, wearing a furrow in the ground as he waited out the long hours of the night. Occasionally the watchmen called out, and once or twice he heard the clamor of booted feet and shouted orders, but mostly everything was still and silent.

He couldn't keep his thoughts straight, and he lurched from his scattered memories of Raven Hill to wild speculations on how Dwalin and his dwarves were faring. He thought about Mount Gundabad, and Bolg, and Smaug's corpse lying in the bitter water of Long Lake. He felt small, and useless, and entirely miserable. Was it only this morning that the world had seemed so cheerful and full of promise, that he could think of no worse fate than incurring Thorin's wrath?

Long hours passed before a sudden confusion of shouts and cries shook him free of his bleak thoughts, and he hurried outside. "What's going on?" he asked the guards. "Are we under attack?"

"Look, Master Baggins," the dwarf said. "There, marching up along the river."

Bilbo squinted out in the darkness. His eyes were sharp, but even he had trouble making out details at that distance. Not goblins, surely. Was it Dwalin? Yes, and Dain's men, and some of the elves, too. He hurried down to meet them, pushing past a throng of gathered men and dwarves and wishing impatiently that the returning army would march just a little faster.

As they approached, he scanned the ranks anxiously, looking for his friends. There were Dwalin and Glóin, both unharmed, and indeed only a few of Dain's men had visible injuries. Legolas was there was well, and more elves than Bilbo had expected, some so badly hurt that they had been lashed to their mounts to keep from falling off.

"What did I tell you, Master Baggins?" Dwalin called as soon as they were within speaking distance of one another. "Like taking gold from a dwarfling."

"The battle went well, then?" Dain said, striding up to stand beside him.

"Three hundred goblins, I reckon. But they weren't looking for us to catch them from behind, or for the prince's men to turn and fight. We killed most and drove the rest into the marshes."

Bilbo grinned, and the ragged crowd cheered.

"You lot, make yourself useful," Dwalin ordered when the noise died down. "We've got wounded to care for. Help get them to the healers."

"We'll set the cooks to breakfast," Dain said, prompting a second cheer, even louder than the first.

Dwalin shoved his way through the ensuing chaos towards Bilbo, and clapped the hobbit on the back hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. "What do think of that?" he said. "We'll drive them from Mount Gundabad yet."

"Was it Bolg?" asked Bilbo. "Did you kill him?"

"If it was, he slunk away as soon as the killing started. But he'll show himself sooner or later. When he does, we'll make him curse the foul bitch that whelped him."

Soon, the heady smoke of cooking fires was wafting through the air, and the returning soldiers settled down to a hot meal and some semblance of the camp's morning routine. As soon as he smelled food, Bilbo remembered that he hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and quite suddenly he was ravenous. He scarfed down three bowls of stew and worked his way through most of a fourth before wandering out across encampment in search of a friendly face.

Instead, he found Bard, sitting by some of the other commanders and talking over the battle. Just the sight of the man was enough to make him uncomfortable, but Bilbo took a deep breath, and walked over to sit beside him anyway.

"About Dale," he said, before his courage failed him. It had been haunting him all throughout the long night, but now that he had the chance to speak he couldn't find the proper words.

"Don't fret about it," said Bard. He was hunched in on himself, his shoulders slumped and his brow furrowed. "I'm taking my men back to Laketown on the morrow. I was a fool to think that the East would ever be safe, and I don't have fighters to guard Laketown and stake a claim on Dale."

"No," Bilbo said. "I mean—that's not what I meant."

Bard picked up a stick and poked the fire with it. The flickering shadows gave his weathered face a grim, unhappy look.

Bilbo sighed. He had already put his foot in it, and there was no point in backing out now. "Oh, bother, I'm going about this all wrong. I mean to say, why don't you just bring all your folk up from Laketown and pass the winter here? Dwarves will be coming home to Erebor in droves, and you'll have craftsmen and builders to help with Dale."

At last, Bard turned to look at him. "If this is a joke," he said, slowly, "it is uncommon cruel of you."

"No," Bilbo said, scuffing one bare foot against the cold ground. "It's not a joke."

"Why are you doing this? Your king hates me. You said yourself that Dale was never a part of our negotiations." Bard's voice was hard and suspicious.

"And you said that it was foolish to think the East would ever be safe. Gandalf said much the same. I didn't want to believe it, but now—well, look at us." Bilbo gestured vaguely around the campfire. Dwalin and a half-dozen other dwarves were sprawled out on the ground, talking and laughing. Legolas was sitting apart, fiddling with a bandage wrapped around his forearm, and speaking in low tones with two of the elves who had returned to Erebor with him. Gandalf had appeared some time before, smoking contentedly and occasionally sending meaningful glances Bilbo's way.

There was no reason for them to be gathered here, eating breakfast and trading tales of the battle. And yet they were still caught up in a strange camaraderie, a lingering sense of the shared strength that had once again saved all their lives. They elves and dwarves weren't speaking to one another, but they were drinking together with comparative good grace, passing around tankards filled with foul-smelling alcohol. Apparently, some enterprising dwarf had set up a distillery behind the mess hall.

"We can't keep tossing our soldiers together and pointing them in the direction of the goblins," Bilbo said. "We need plans, and treaties, and proper alliances. We need to guard the road and the marshes, and organize joint patrols. I haven't the slightest notion where to start, but you and Dwalin understand war and strategy and, well, that sort of thing."

A soft, accented voice interrupted them. "Here, Master Bowman."

Bilbo and Bard looked up to see one of the elves standing before them, two brimming mugs in hand. "From the prince," she said. "You look like you could both do with a drink."

Bard wordlessly accepted the mug and raised it in silent salute. Legolas, across the campfire, mirrored him. Bilbo simply took a few hearty gulps before he could think better of it, eyes watering as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "Thank you," he gasped. "It's very, er. Strong."

Bard looked down at him, still unsmiling. "Your king will be angry."

Bilbo slumped a little at that. "Yes, I expect so. But I'm used to it, and what's the worst that can happen? I'll be banished, and go home to Bag End. I'll survive, I expect."

He watched the logs on the fire crack and crumble, sparks flying up into the soft glow of predawn light. It would be worth it, he thought. He could endure the long lonely road home to the Shire, spending the rest of his life by the mill and the Bywater, going to market once a week and whiling away the evenings in his armchair by the fire. It would be enough to know that Erebor was safe, and Dale, and Mirkwood. It would be enough to know that these strange, dangerous folk would fight alongside one another, defend one another come what may.

"I see," Bard said. "And that is truly your decision?"

Bilbo nodded. "Bard, Lord of Dale. It suits you."

Bard snorted inelegantly. "Does it?"

"It will," Bilbo said. He was certain of it. Bard would be a great king, and he would rule Dale as Thorin ruled Erebor. Maybe, on some bright distant day, they would even be able to speak civilly to one another.

Bard looked out at some indeterminate point in the distance. "So you say. And you're not the only one. If I'm not careful I'll start putting on airs, and making much of myself." Abruptly, he tossed a small, wrapped bundle at Bilbo's feet. It landed in the dirt with a dull thud. "Here."

Bilbo picked it up cautiously. It was a familiar weight in his hands, and he didn't need to unwrap the tattered cloth to know what it was. Now it was his turn for astonishment.

"Why?" he blurted out. "I mean, thank you. But I don't understand."

"What use do I have for the Arkenstone?" Bard asked. "The goodwill of my allies and a fourteenth share of Erebor's gold will serve me better than any trinket, no matter how pretty to look at."

"Yes," Bilbo said, and he could think of nothing but the way that Thorin's lips would part with surprised pleasure, how his eyes would brighten at the sight of the Arkenstone sitting by his bedside. "Well. Yes."

On the other side of the campfire, Dwalin stood up, eyes sharp. Likely he'd heard their entire conversation. "A word, Mister Baggins."

He didn't sound particularly angry, but the words were enough to make Bilbo's heart flutter uncomfortably in his chest, like a nervous hummingbird. He took another gulp from his mug and swallowed hard, then scrambled to his feet and followed Dwalin out of the warm circle of firelight, clutching the Arkenstone in his hands.

Dwalin walked fast, and Bilbo had to jog to keep up. They both stayed silent until they had walked well out of earshot of any potential eavesdroppers.

Bilbo thought that he was braced for anything, but he couldn't believe his ears when Dwalin rounded on him and said "That was a brave thing you just did, laddie."

"Thank you," Bilbo managed, but the words trailed off into a high, nervous question.

"Don't give me that," said Dwalin impatiently. "I'm not going to eat you. I'm not even going to shout at you."

"Oh. Well. That's good."

Dwalin sighed. "Look here. I can't promise you Thorin won't be angry, because I reckon he'll be bloody furious. I've known him since I was a lad, and I've never met a dwarf prouder or more stubborn. But that doesn't mean he's always got the right of it. Kings are like that. My da was on Thrór's council, and sometimes it's all you can do to follow after them and pick up their messes."

It was the longest speech Bilbo had ever heard Dwalin make, and he fell silent at the end of it. Bilbo, in some mad flight of fancy, wondered if he had used up his supply of words for the day. "So you think I did right?" he asked, hardly daring to hope.

"I don't rightly know," said Dwalin. "I can't say I'm fond of Bard. But he's a good fighter, and there are worse fellows to have outside your gates."

Bilbo breathed a heady sigh of relief. For a gruff, taciturn dwarf like Dwalin, that was practically a declaration of love.

Dwalin slung an arm around Bilbo's shoulders. "You keep on charming our neighbors, Mister Baggins. Leave Thorin and his sour temper to me."

"Right," Bilbo said, unsteadily. "I think I can do that. And wait a moment," he added, struck with a sudden thought, "you said something about a king's council?"

* * *

Bard sat and poked restlessly at the fading embers, the remains of his breakfast forgotten at his side. His mind was whirling with plans and speculations, and his body thrummed with a frantic happiness. He felt as if he had cast aside a terrible, unnamed burden, and the sudden lightness was almost more than he could stand.

Had there ever been a more beautiful dawn that the one rising up above the eastern spur of the mountain? The sky over the valley shone pink and gold, and he could imagine the ghostly roofs and towers of Dale glowing in such a sunrise. Children would dart through the streets, laughing and wrecking merry havoc. High above them banners would flutter in the wind, and soon the rest of city would be stirring too.

It was only a dream, but with a fourteenth of Erebor's gold and the goodwill of the dwarves, Bard could make it come true.

"I've never seen you smile like that before," Legolas said. The rest of the dwarves had drifted away soon after Dwalin and Bilbo left, and the rest of the gathering had followed suit. Legolas and Bard were the only two left.

"Am I smiling?" Bard asked, absently. "Well. I suppose I am."

He looked up to see Legolas unwrapping a dripping red bandage from around his forearm. A long, half-healed gash, bleeding sluggishly, marred his pale skin.

"You should have that seen to," he said, startled back to reality by the sight.

Legolas shook his head. "It's nothing. A few of my stitches tore. I can tend to it myself."

Bard looked on while Legolas did just that, deftly cleaning and re-bandaging the wound. He might not have inherited his father's skill at healing, but he was competent enough, and he didn't flinch though the injury must have pained him. "You gave up the Arkenstone," he said, neatly stating the obvious. "Why?"

"Don't gloat. It doesn't suit you."

Legolas huffed a soft laugh. "I wasn't gloating. But I am glad. Dragons have a strange power over gold and jewels. Sometimes it lingers."

Bard was a proud man, and it wasn't in him to apologize. Instead, he sat across from the elf prince until the sky was shot through with pale color, both of them quiet, listening as the world woke up around them.

"Why do you owe Bilbo Baggins?" he asked eventually. "And why doesn't he know about it?"

Legolas drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them close. "It was during the battle," he said, quietly. "He saved my life. Or at least—I was going to be captured, I think. I don't remember it very well."

"I guess he doesn't either," Bard said, trying not to let on how shaken he was by the simple confession. Legolas, captured? Or killed? It didn't bear thinking about.

"He hit his head, and he was unconscious for hours. As far as father can tell, he doesn't remember anything after the first retreat on Raven Hill."

That explained something, at least. Bard had wondered more than once how Bilbo Baggins had persuaded the Elvenking to save Thorin's life. "Why haven't you told him?"

Legolas sighed. "Father doesn't like being in anyone's debt. He thinks it's degrading."

"It could have been worse," Bard said, aiming for good humor. "It could have been one of the dwarves."

To his satisfaction, Legolas laughed. "I'll give you that, my lord Bard."

* * *

Meanwhile, in Thorin's pavilion, Thranduil sat at the dwarven king's side, checking his pulse and examining his wounds as he did every morning.

"If you don't awaken soon, Thorin son of Thráin," he said, with no little humor, "you may open your eyes only to see your halfling become the accidental King under the Mountain. I daresay he would do the job better than you. Perhaps, if you are far luckier than you deserve, he will at least keep you from going the way of your grandfather."

And then, as if in response to his words, Thorin Oakenshield stirred.


	6. I Will Remain

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 6

I Will Remain

**A/N**: This chapter is a little shorter, because I've realized it's the only way I'm going to be able to post more than once a month during term time. As usual, I owe hugs to Sara and Tiia for life-coaching me while I write, and to everyone who reads and reviews because you all make me unbelievably happy.

On that note, I've made a solemn vow that I won't update again until I've written proper review replies to everyone I've been neglecting, so if you get an extremely belated PM from me, that's why!

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest. This time, the chapter title is from a song by Matthew & The Atlas.

* * *

Thorin had never been a deep sleeper. Even as a child, he was easily disturbed, waking at small noises and in the middle of strange dreams. He'd been an only child for the first dozen years of his life, and slept alone in his room in the royal wing, separated from his parents and grandparents by walls of solid stone. Then his brother and sister were born, and he spent more time heating milk bottles and scaring away balrogs than he did sleeping. His parents had duties of their own, and no time to spend raising spare children.

For all the years after Smaug came down from the north, he slept only as a matter of duty: because his body was weak and would fail unless he did as it required. For Thorin, there were no soft mornings spent drowsing in the sunshine, and no quiet drift from sleep to waking.

This morning was no different. He waited for a moment—one, two—letting his surroundings wash over him. No one was nearby. No danger. Morning light pressed against his eyelids, and he ached all over, but that was nothing new.

Mahal. Another day. He sighed a little and opened his eyes.

Then he remembered the battle.

The memories came in a rush. He jackknifed up, eyes snapping open, only to collapse back onto the cot he was lying on as burning agony overwhelmed him and he blacked out.

He awoke again what felt like seconds later. The pain hadn't vanished, but it had subsided enough to be controllable. Still, he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as he opened his eyes and forced himself into a sitting position.

"Don't be an idiot," someone said, distantly. Did he know that voice? "Oh, curse it, you useless dwarf—stay down!"

Thorin did as he was told, vision darkening at the edges as he struggled to catch his breath. He ruthlessly suppressed his panic, forcing his thoughts into some kind of order. There was something, he knew, that needed to be dealt with. Something important.

Well, what _did_ he know? The light had changed since his first waking. It was early evening, and the air was cold but not bitter. It was quiet, though he could hear the muffled sounds of conversation from outside the pavilion. His chest felt like someone had branded it with a hot iron.

And, he realized quite suddenly, there was someone standing silent and unnoticed beside him.

"Finally," King Thranduil said, looming at his shoulder like a blond, bad-tempered ghost. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you to do something interesting?"

Thorin's heart was pounding double-time in his chest. He wanted to curse at the elf, but his throat was as dry as old parchment and he couldn't speak a word.

"I've spent the last fortnight saving your kingdom and your life," Thranduil said as he poured a glass of water from a stoneware pitcher and handed it to Thorin. You're welcome."

Thorin mouthed something very rude.

"Yes, I'll keep that in mind. Now drink that, else you'll pass out again."

The glass felt appealing cool to the touch, and the water sloshed inside. Abruptly, Thorin realized that he had never been so thirsty in his life. He put the glass to his lips with clumsy fingers, but he could only manage small sips and he spilled more than he drank.

"There. Now lie back down, and let me see if you've ripped any of your stitches."

"No," Thorin rasped, finding his voice at last. "Stay where you are."

"Don't be tiresome. If I wanted to hurt you I would have done so already, and saved myself the boredom of all these days at your side."

"I want to see Dain."

Thranduil sighed. "Dain is busy with his own affairs. I'll send word to your fellow dungeon escapees that you're awake, but only if you behave. Fair enough?"

Thorin conceded with ill grace. It was clear that Thranduil was at least marginally competent, and if what he was saying was true—and Thorin couldn't imagine his dwarves allowing the Elvenking anywhere near him, otherwise—he was well in the running for the greatest healer in Arda . Thorin had known that he was dying the moment that Azog buried that accursed mace in his chest. No one survived a wound like that. And yet here he was.

"Your luck holds," Thranduil said, "and this is healing well. I'll fetch one of your loyal subjects for you, as promised."

He left without another word, leaving Thorin lying alone in the pavilion. The battle had been won. That much was obvious. But what else? He dwelt a few wretched bits and pieces of memory while he waited, unable to turn his mind to anything but melancholy.

He thought of Kili lying dead in the dust, and Fili howling over his corpse, broken sword in hand. The feeling of choking on his own blood as he lay helpless underneath a spiked mace. The Defiler's corpse, blood dripping from the gristly neck—beside it, an orc who cradled Azog's head in his massive hands and stared down at Thorin with raw dead hate. Those were his last fragmented memories of the battlefield.

How could he tell Dís that her sons had been killed in battle under his command? He had wanted to give his family a home, to see his sister and her family safe and happy at last. That had been his fondest dream—that Dís would lead his Council and wear silver in her hair, while her boys saw Erebor proud and strong once more. Thorin had known how it would be. They would laugh at all the wrong times in Council meetings, and be fearless commanders, and charm the cooks into making their favorite foods. Day by day, they would learn to be kings.

It struck Thorin that he would never hear Kili laugh again.

I'm sorry, sister, he thought. I'm so sorry. I've killed your sons.

* * *

It might have been second or hours later that Thranduil returned, Balin following close at his heels. Thorin looked at them dully.

"Oh, thank Mahal," Balin breathed, hurrying over to him. "Thorin!"

Thorin tried to smile, but he didn't have the heart for it. "Balin," he said. "It's—good to see you."

"And you, laddie. You've no idea how good it is. Should I bother asking how you feel?"

Thorin shook his head, and Balin's smile faded. "Of course not. Well, the elf says that you'll be on your feet again in a few days, provided you don't do anything too rash. You'll be wanting a full account of what's been happening, I suppose?"

Thorin could summon up anything more than a vague, morbid curiosity. He nodded anyway, but Balin had known him too long to be fooled by silence.

"He told you about the boys, then," Balin said. He turned to glower at Thranduil, but the elf had vanished.

"He told me nothing. He didn't need to."

Balin frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I was there," Thorin snapped, roused to temper by Balin's insistence. Surely he, of all people, would realize that Thorin didn't want to talk about his nephews. "I saw it happen."

"Thorin, they're not dead."

For a long, horrible moment, Thorin was numb. He felt nothing at all.

"Fili's as well as can expected. Kili—well, he's still breathing, and that's more than anyone but his brother dared to hope."

"I _saw_ it happen," said Thorin. "Azog ran Kili through and hacked his arm off while he lay dying. Orcs cut Fili down while he stood guard over us."

Balin shook his head. "Fili's cut up, but nothing fatal. And running Kili through would have been a difficult prospect, considering."

Thorin felt the first, faint stir of hope. "Considering?"

"He was wearing your old mithril hauberk, the one King Thrór had made for you when you came of age. Fili found it when they went wandering during the siege. They meant to give it back to you, but you were a skinny thing back in those days. It would have been useless on you. But it fit Kili fair enough, and Fili made him wear it into battle."

"What about his arm?"

"Gone, below the elbow. Azog might not have stabbed him but he did enough damage to be going on with. The poor lad's battered and bruised and he almost bled out. He hasn't stirred since the battle."

"But there's a chance."

Balin hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. There's a chance."

Thorin realized that he was shaking. "I thought—Balin, I thought I'd killed them." He dragged a hand across his face, wiping away the tears that were threatening to fall. Then he took a deep breath and nodded sharply. "Enough of this. You promised me a full account."

"So I did," said Balin, voice soft with sympathy. "Forgive me. It's been eight days since the battle. Most of Thranduil's army is gone, although some of their wounded are still here—there was a skirmish on the road back to Mirkwood. Dain's soldiers have stayed, as have the Laketown men, and more of the survivors of Smaug's attack are arriving every day. We've been running joint patrols and tracking down the last of the goblins and wargs. Some have escaped into the Withered Heath, but most are dead."

"And our own losses?"

The look on Balin's face told Thorin all he wanted to know. "Bad. More than half of Dain's soldiers are dead, and ninety of Bard's men. A fourth of Thranduil's army killed, and as many wounded."

"Mahal," Thorin breathed. Even in Erebor, he had never won such a cruel victory. "So many?"

"By rights, we shouldn't be here," Balin said. "If it wasn't for the eagles, and for Beorn—"

"Yes, Dain told me," Thorin said distantly. "Has any acknowledgement been made?"

"Beorn vanished the night after the battle. The eagles returned to their eyries soon after, though sometimes we see one or two hunting with our patrols in the Desolation."

"Gandalf will know how to send word to them. We owe them too much to let it pass without even a farewell."

"You'll give them gold?"

Thorin smiled thinly. "I think we have enough of it to be generous, don't you?"

"Of course," Balin said, frowning a little. "But then—Bard and Thranduil?"

"Don't worry," Thorin said. "I have no intention of emptying our coffers to buy off scavengers. I will not offer insult to the kings and captains who fought alongside us, but my goodwill reaches no further than that."

"Ah," Balin said. It looked as if he was on the verge of commenting, but instead he only shrugged and fell silent.

Thorin pressed on. "What of Erebor?"

"A travesty. It'll take decades to rebuild. We'll be able to winter inside, but it won't be pleasant, and after that—"

"It's up to me. Are you quite sure my wounds aren't fatal?" Thorin asked, thinking of the endless years of slogging work that lay ahead of him.

Balin grinned, suddenly looking as merry as the mischievous boy who had once tied the teenage Thorin's hair to the back of his Council chair. "Oh, no, sire, you're not getting out that easily. What was it my da used to say? 'You've found your metal, lad, and now you're beholden. You must buckle down and mine it.'"

Thorin's lips twitched into a faint answering smile. "I've won my kingdom, you mean, and now I must rule it."

"Take heart, your majesty. Soon the Elvenking will be gone, and Dain marching home the Iron Hills, and we'll have peace and quiet but for the hammering down in Dale. We can all get drunk and sing odes to our victory, and fall asleep on piles of gold."

"Not as comfortable for dwarves as dragons," Thorin said, absently. As a child, he had been locked in the treasury one too many times to cherish that particular daydream. Then he frowned. "Dale?"

"Ah. Yes." Balin hemmed and hawed for a moment. "Dale."

"It never bodes well when my oldest friend and chief advisor takes to shuffling and staring at the floor."

"Dale," Balin said again, contemplatively.

Thorin pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the grind of the half-healed bones inside his chest, as disconcerting as nails scraping against soft rock. "Surviving the Elvenking has not salved my patience. Speak."

Balin spoke, albeit with real reluctance.

"Mister Baggins has formally given Bard of Laketown the right to build at our gates," he said, "with the blessings of the king and the goodwill of his people."

Thorin hadn't heard the ancient formalities in so many years that they sounded strange and stilted coming out of Balin's mouth. More than that, they made no sense. Balin might as well have said that Bilbo had taken to standing outside the pavilion and declaiming Khuzdul poetry.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, blankly. "He's done—what? No. He has no right."

"I'm afraid he does, Thorin."

"Only the king can give royal blessings to a venture. It's somewhat implied in the name. And only a king's Council can make a declaration of goodwill."

"I learned my lessons in the same court as you," Balin reminded him.

"I would cut my own throat before letting that upstart soldier anywhere near Erebor, and my grandfather's lords are all dead. The Council can make no declarations because the Council doesn't exist!"

"Yes," said Balin. He accompanied the word with an awkward little cough. "Well."

"Of, for the love of—_just tell me_!" Thorin roared.

He was immediately seized by a violent coughing fit, his throat and lungs protesting the loud abuse after his long silence on the sickbed. "Don't," he rasped, when Balin rushed forward to help. "It's nothing. Just pour me some water."

Balin cast about, and found the pitcher and glass that Thranduil had set aside. He poured Thorin a glass and then stood by his side, waiting helplessly while Thorin's lungs tried to claw their way up his throat. Eventually, the fit subsided. Thorin slumped back against the blankets, breathing hard, and took the water from Balin with trembling hands.

"Tell me," he said again, and this time Balin obeyed.

"You gave Bilbo leave to bestow a king's blessing when you told Dain that he would speak for you. During your convalescence, our burglar made use of his rights. He convinced Thranduil to look after you. Then he gave Dale and a fourteenth of the treasure to Bard, and seated a Council in your name."

"No," said Thorin. "I don't believe it."

It was absurd. Balin was playing a trick, nothing more. Bilbo would never do such a thing. Thorin remembered, with a sharp haunting clarity, the way that Bilbo had knelt at his side and wept. How Bilbo's hand had run through the coarse ragged silk of his hair, blood drying on his fingers like flakes of rust. Thorin remembered closing his eyes, lost in the distant wash of grief, pain and misery carrying him out to sea—and Bilbo the one fixed point in the world, a rock to cling onto, something small and sturdy.

Bilbo wouldn't do something so reckless and disobedient. Not again.

A glimpse of moonlight shone through the pavilion entrance, and Thorin saw something glimmering at the side of his makeshift bed.

It was the Arkenstone. Thorin stared at it for a long time, strangely unwilling to even pick it up."Bilbo Baggins, you little fool," he said at last, more to himself than anyone else. "I thought you had learned your lesson."

"Is there anything I can do?" Balin asked, tentatively.

"Yes," Thorin said. "I'll take care of our burglar myself, but that can wait. In the meantime, I want to see my nephews."

Balin looked at him sharply. "I don't think that's wise, do you? The elf said—"

"Balin. Do as I say."

Balin sighed. "I'll see if I can bring Fili. But I can't promise I'll be able to. He won't leave Kili's side, not for anything. Bilbo held our first Council meeting in their tent, because it's the only way he'll attend. None of us complained, of course."

"You're appointed? In your father's name, I suppose. Good. You can keep Dain's lords in order."

"None of Dain's lords are on the Council," Balin said, an odd note in his voice.

Thorin frowned. His grandfather's lords were dead. Their heirs were scattered from the Iron Hills to Ered Luin. Of the Company, only Balin and Dwalin had any claim. Thorin had assumed that Dain lent Bilbo some of his lords in order to form a temporary assembly, but if that wasn't true, then who had the hobbit appointed? Seats on the King's Council couldn't be handed out on a whim. The Council was the government of Erebor, and the dwarves who served on it were ennobled by default. They had titles, land, hereditary honors and positions—the most important decision a newly-crowned king made was choosing the dwarves of his Council.

Thorin closed his eyes. "Tell me that Bilbo didn't appoint my entire Council. Please, Balin. Tell me that."

Balin's silence was profoundly telling.

"I'm going to kill him," said Thorin grimly. "I am going to feed him to a dragon, or give him to the orcs, or take him back up to the battlements and pitch him off. Does he have any _idea_ what kind of trouble he's caused?"

"No, though I've tried to explain it to him. You should know who he picked. It might—I don't know if it will cheer you up or not."

"Fine. Who?"

"You can't blame him entirely," Balin said. "As far as he was concerned, it made sense. Dwalin was explaining what a traditional Council was like. Bilbo asked how many lords there were, and it's thirteen, of course, and the king makes fourteen. Any less is ill luck. And so Bilbo cast around for thirteen trustworthy dwarves, and it occurred to him that—well."

"Oh, you've got to be joking," Thorin groaned, when he realized what Balin was implying. "The Company?"

If Thorin didn't know better, he would have thought that Balin was repressing a smile. "The Company," he agreed. "Twelve dwarves, a hobbit, and their king. Tinkers, toymakers, petty criminals, and mad old warriors all. Congratulations, sire."

Thorin wished, with all his heart, that he was still blessedly unconscious.


	7. King and Council

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 7

King and Council

**A/N: **I could not possibly apologize enough for the absurd delay in posting this chapter. Please just know that I'm sorry and that this story will never be abandoned. I also won't predict when the _next _chapter will be posted, because things go horribly wrong whenever I try. But I will say that the chapter after this one will be the last in this particular plot arc, which I'm kind of psyched about. Lionheart is almost one third of the way done!

Oh, and if anyone wants to talk about the DOS sneak peek, I'll be here. _Dying of happiness._

**Warning:** Late in this chapter, there's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it discussion of disordered eating, which will reappear (briefly) in chapters to come.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

Balin left soon after that, with strict orders to tell no one that Thorin was awake. He solemnly promised to keep quiet, but Thorin wasn't surprised when Dwalin sauntered into the pavilion later that same evening, blithely ignoring the complaints of not one, but two, irritated kings.

"I thought the son of Fundin was your most trusted advisor," Thranduil said, raising his eyebrows as he surveyed Dwalin from the top of his bald, tattooed head to the toes of muddy boots. "But it seems he cannot keep the rabble out."

Dwalin didn't spare Thranduil so much as a glance. He shoved past him and headed straight for Thorin.

"What are you doing here?" Thorin said, grumpily. He didn't bother to sit up this time. He hurt too much, and besides, it was Dwalin. Neither of them were much for standing on ceremony, at least not with each other.

Dwalin grinned. "Nice to see you too, your majesty."

"Don't call me that until you can say it with a straight face."

"As you like. You're always so sweet-tempered on the sickbed." Dwalin turned around to look at Thranduil, who was noisily sorting through a chest of medical supplies. "Don't you have someplace else to be?"

"I certainly hope you're not talking to me," Thranduil said, mildly.

Dwalin, brave but not foolish, didn't press the matter. He turned back to Thorin. "You look like shit. I reckon you feel like shit, too."

"I'm not the one with the broken nose." Thorin couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Dwalin smile or jest. The journey to Erebor had darkened even the youngest and cheeriest of the dwarves, and Dwalin was neither. But now he seemed almost jovial, and his good spirits were contagious. "You're getting blood everywhere," headded.

"Am I? Oh. Your hobbit's been teaching us Shire games." Dwalin poked experimentally at his swollen, bloody nose. "Didn't realize it was still bleeding."

"He's not my hobbit. Or if he is, he's no great treasure." Thorin had learned once again the risks of putting his faith in Bilbo Baggins. This time, at least, his disappointment was tempered by that knowledge that Bilbo was only trying to help—failing miserably, but trying nevertheless. Thorin might have been charmed, if only the hobbit hadn't caused so much trouble.

Then the import of Dwalin's words caught up to him. He frowned. "Wait. You broke your nose playing a _halfling's _game?"

Dwalin grinned. "We might have fiddled with the rules a bit. Only a bit, mind."

It was just like Dwalin to turn some harmless pastime into an excuse for brawling. Thorin reached out to clasp one of Dwalin's hands, chest suddenly tight with affection for the battered old warrior standing in front of him.

Balin's news had put Thorin in a bad humor. For a time he had been turning the Arkenstone over and over in his hands, thinking of his nephews and the carrion birds that were doubtless crowing over the battlefield. Only Thranduil's complaints had kept him from sinking into a black depression. But now his oldest friend was beside him, and the world seemed a little less bleak.

"It's good to see you," Thorin said.

Dwalin let go of his hand and sat down beside him. Thorin felt a momentary pang at the loss of contact; it was the first friendly touch he had felt since he'd opened his eyes. But a moment later Dwalin leaned forward, and knocked their heads together gently, and his voice was even rougher than usual when he said, "You too, sire."

It took longer than it should have for Thorin to pull back. "I hope you haven't brought me more bad news," he said. "I'm not certain my delicate constitution can handle any more shocks."

"Balin told you about Dale, then."

"Dale, yes. And my new Council. And—how did he put it? 'The strange encounter with the elves on the marshes', he said, which sounds more like a fireside tale than a battle."

"You know my brother. Thinks he's too clever by half."

"And he usually is. But not clever enough to stop our hobbit from running riot over two thousand years of tradition."

"Ah," Dwalin said knowingly. "So he's not _your_ hobbit but _ours_?"

"He's nobody's hobbit but his own," said Thranduil from the other side of the pavilion, shutting the medicine chest so hard that the wood cracked. His voice was acerbic. "As you would know, son of Thráin, if only you spent less time thinking on your own importance."

"Mind your tongue," Thorin snapped, just as Dwalin muttered, "Gods, how can you stand him?"

Thranduil shot them a sharp look, but Thorin could have sworn that the corners of his mouth were twitching.

"With about as much difficulty as I endure him," Thranduil said, straightening. "But you're right, Master Dwarf, to wonder why I remain here. I have better things to do than sit around and listen to your king whine like a child."

His parting jab was somewhat spoiled when he paused at the entrance, sighed, and added:"The guards will know where I am. Send one of them to find me if he needs a healer."

The moment the elf was gone, Dwalin burst out laughing.

"If you two aren't careful," he choked out, "you'll wind up getting along."

Thorin glowered. "Don't be absurd."

"You're a matched set. Sullen boys, the both of you."

Thorin would never admit, even to Dwalin, that his fights with Thranduil had kept his mind from settling too long on grim thoughts, and that sometimes Thranduil had been almost kind. It was nonsense to think such things. Thranduil had turned his back on Thorin's kin, had betrayed and imprisoned them, had laid siege to their kingdom. No amount of shallow kindness would change that.

It was bad enough that the Elvenking had saved Thorin's life. According to Balin, the elven army had driven Bolg and his surviving goblins from the field, and there was no dishonor in that. But the thought of the Elvenking attending him on the sickbed, as if he were an ailing child to be coddled and cosseted—the shame of it burned at him.

"Ah, just ignore me," Dwalin said. "I was only making fun."

"Never mind that," said Thorin. He would pay his debt to the Elvenking, however unwelcome it was. But until he was crowned and seated in Erebor, and the rest of his kin safe within the mountain walls, he had more important things to think about. "You have other excuses to make, surely?"

Dwalin tried to look innocent and only succeeded a little. "Can't imagine what you mean,"

"Don't bother. Balin's already said that you're the one who put the notion of a council in Bilbo's head. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that Bilbo Baggins was the best thing to happen to us since you found Gandalf getting drunk at a tavern in Bree."

"Mahal, not you too," Thorin said, his temper returning. "You sound just like the elf."

"Sorry," Dwalin said. "But it's true. And he's not half bad at what he does."

"Your brother disagrees."

"Balin's a stuffy old conservative. It would take more than a hundred years in exile to blow the dust off him. Who were you going to put on the Council, anyway? All the grasping old nobles that your cousin doesn't want to deal with?"

"Dís," Thorin said, temper flaring. "And you, and Balin, and yes, some of Dain's lords."

"You know what the politicians are like, Thorin. Give them a copper and they'll empty your pockets. You could do worse that to keep folk you trust nearby."

"The hobbit had no right to make that choice, and you had no right to let him."

"I'll own to my part. But someone had to do something, and I figured you'd rather have us looking after things. It was Bilbo or Dain. If you hadn't told Dain that the hobbit would speak for you—if Dain wasn't so damned honorable—you might've woken up to something you fancied even less."

"Something worse than seeing that upstart Laketown soldier welcomed at my gates? I wonder that such misfortune is to be found."

"Bard did us wrong, sure enough." Dwalin was faltering a little. He wasn't one for speeches. "Coming to the mountain with a whole army at his back, trying to take what otherwise we might've given. But we didn't treat them any too kindly, either. Smaug did them as much wrong as he ever did us. There were women and little ones going hungry, and good soldiers hurt—"

"The elves sent them aid. And we numbered only fourteen. Should we have left the mountain and walked back to Laketown to listen to them weep?"

Dwalin straightened his shoulders. "We should have done something. Anything."

"And I thought you were on my side," Thorin snapped. His tongue was sharp with the sting of betrayal, but he regretted the words as soon as he spoke them.

There was a long, unpleasant pause.

"That's quite a thing to say to me," Dwalin said, slowly and deliberately. "To me, mind. Who else in this godsforsaken life has stuck with you like I have?"

Who else, indeed?

Thorin looked down at his scarred hands resting above the coverlet. He couldn't bring himself to look the other dwarf in the eyes. It was one thing to accuse Bilbo of treachery, but Dwalin was a cousin—distant, perhaps, but still a cousin—and no one in his right mind would ever think him disloyal to the line of Durin.

But then, Thorin thought, it's been a long time since you were in your right mind, Thorin son of Thráin, son of mad king Thrór.

"That was unjust," he said aloud. "Forgive me."

The hard line of Dwalin's mouth softened at that. "You've had a rough fortnight."

Had it been so long? Eight days since the battle, Balin had said, and that made it at least fourteen since the joined armies of Bard and Thranduil had first laid siege to Erebor. It occurred to Thorin, as if for the first time, that he had survived. He had avenged his grandfather's death and his father's shame. His long exile was over. The war was done, and now he had to be a king. Not a prince in exile, or a warlord, or a soldier on the field.

He was not even a blacksmith anymore.

It was a strange, unsettling thought.

"Well, never mind that," Thorin said again, ignoring the cold sliver of fear that pricked his heart. What was there for him to be afraid of? He was a king now, and his enemies slain. "You've taken the hobbit's part, and I suppose you had your reasons. You're cleverer than Balin gives you credit for, to corner me now. I'm too tired and wretched to be as angry as I should."

Dwalin settled down more comfortably on the hard ground. "I suppose we'd best have a proper talk," he said. "There's plenty Balin hasn't told you, I wager."

* * *

**_Earlier that day_**

The Elvenking had kept a close eye on Thorin since the morning of the skirmish in the marshes, and for forty long hours he and Bilbo had taken turns keeping vigil at his bedside, coaxing the dwarf back to himself.

It had not been a pleasant time for Bilbo, despite his joy at Thorin's imminent recovery. He slept only fitfully, and his dreams were uneasy and terrifying by turns. The headaches which had troubled him the first night after the battle had returned with a vengeance. It was normal, Thranduil assured him, after a blow to the head; the symptoms would fade in time, though it might take weeks or even months. Thranduil could do nothing for them except offer a vial of reddish-brown liquid that he promised would relieve the pain.

After the first dose, Bilbo returned the bottle. The medicine dulled his mind even more than the pain did, and he hated how slow and sluggish he felt after taking it.

"I just don't have the time to be tired," Bilbo told Thranduil, not even looking at him as he spoke. He was sitting beside Thorin, as usual, watching as the dwarven king shifted, drifting restlessly between waking and sleeping. "Don't worry. I'll manage."

Thranduil sighed and picked up the vial that Bilbo had abandoned. It was only a few ruddy drops short of full. "I am not worried, halfling. I am vexed. I thought you had more sense than your dwarven companions, but you share their stubbornness. You are not an elf to forgo sleep for days at a time, or a dwarf to fast without becoming faint."

"I just want to be useful. And why do you get to complain? If anyone's been running me ragged with petty work, it's you."

"Fetching meals and correspondence is precisely the kind of work that you _should _be doing. Instead, you insist on fussing over politics and getting tangled up in the affairs of your betters."

Bilbo smiled faintly. "If I didn't know better, your majesty, I might think you were worried about me, and Thorin and the other dwarves too. You cluck like a mother hen."

"And now the child is going mad," Thranduil said, to no one in particular. He waved Bilbo away with a flick of one pale hand. "Shoo. Your precious king will be awake soon enough, and I have no patience for halflings who run around talking nonsense."

"That's me," Bilbo said. "Mad Baggins."

He clambered to his feet, swaying a little, and shrugged on the battered old coat that Bofur had scrounged up for him after the battle. It was too large for him, but it was warm, and that was all that mattered—winter was settling in to stay. Bilbo hadn't asked what happened to the coat's previous owner. "We're having our first Council meeting this afternoon, if you want to come watch the fireworks."

"Mithrandir's province, not mine," Thranduil said. "Good luck and good riddance."

Bilbo left. The cold was bracing, and he threw himself against the wind with all the liveliness he could muster. The narrow winding streets of the encampment felt almost settled, these days. The most enterprising dwarves had scrounged up the supplies for more permanent shelters, and the pathways had been worn and rutted with the tread of hundreds of booted feet.

By now, Bilbo knew every inch of it by heart. King Dain, once he'd heard that Bilbo wanted to appoint a Council, had offered him use of the spacious tent where Dain met his own commanders, and where the camp's general meetings had once been held. Bilbo had run messages there dozens of times, and he let his feet lead down the familiar paths.

Unfortunately, his feet led his straight into trouble. Bilbo rounded a corner, his head down against the wind—only to run smack into a short dwarf with very well-polished armor. Knocking a dwarf off his feet was like knocking a mountain off its foundations, but Bilbo wasn't so sturdy: he bounced off the dwarf's bejeweled breastplate and lost his balance, tumbling hard to the ground.

"Watch where you're walking," Lord Varin snapped. He didn't deign to offer Bilbo a hand up.

Bilbo wasn't oblivious to the slight, and he scrambled to his feet, lips pressed tight with anger. This particular noble was one of the wealthiest and oldest on Dain's own Council, and he'd made no secret of his distrust of Bilbo, or his frank disbelief than a dwarf with Thorin's honored lineage would have anything to do with a hobbit. "A thieving little creature," Bilbo had once overheard Lord Varin say, "with nothing to recommend him but the weakness of a wounded king. You needn't indulge him, my lord Dain—that sort will take what they can get."

It was dwarves bearing Lord Varin's crest who most often snubbed him at meals, and called him a traitor, and stirred up trouble in the camp. In the first days after the battle, several nasty little scuffles had broken out between Thranduil's solders and Lord Varin's dwarves, and Lord Varin had accused the elven healers of hoarding medicines and leaving wounded dwarven soldiers to suffer. One of the elven healers, younger than the rest, had retorted that if there were any justice in the world, there wouldn't have been any dwarven survivors in the first place. Needless to say, the spat hadn't sweetened Varin's temper. The fact that Bilbo consorted with elves was just one more black mark against him.

"I'm quite all right," Bilbo said, cheerfully. He was a grown hobbit, and he certainly wasn't about shed tears over childish insults, but he couldn't deny a certain childishness of his own. "Is that a bit of rust on your armor, Lord Varin? To say nothing against such fine metalwork, of course. It's held up beautifully, for something that hasn't seen battle these last hundred years."

It was something of a sore spot for Dain and his nobles, their refusal to join Thorin's quest. And Lord Varin was triply unlucky in the matter of battles. He had neither gone on the quest, nor fought at Moria, nor borne witness to Erebor's ruination. Bofur and the others delighted in telling the dwarves of the Iron Hills about the glories and triumphs of their journey eastward, making much of their many battles and adventures and easily slipping over the less flattering tales: the trolls were noticeable by their absence.

Dwarves were notoriously sensitive about their prowess in battle, and Varin's pride had been stung repeatedly. But Varin was a stately old fellow, for all his peevishness. He only sniffed and pushed on by, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his gleaming armor.

Bilbo whistled as he stepped back onto the path, though the cheerful tune was lost in the wind. He was the last to arrive in the tent that Dain had lent them, but he walked inside with a glow of optimism.

So much for Lord Varin; Bilbo had a meeting to attend. He was looking forward to his Council, even though Balin had made it uncomfortably clear how many liberties he was talking with dwarven customs. Maybe he should have done as Balin suggested and taken a few of Dain's lords—on loan, as it were. But Bilbo couldn't stomach the idea of trusting complete strangers with Erebor. Thorin's companions had followed him across the Misty Mountains, across months of hardship and hundreds of miles. If that wasn't a satisfactory test of loyalty, then Bilbo didn't know what was.

At least this way, Bilbo thought, his Council would be sure to get along.

* * *

Well, it was a nice idea, Bilbo thought.

He ducked as Oín's hearing trumpet went soaring overhead, connecting squarely with Nori's jaw. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he shouldn't have started their first meeting with such a touchy subject. But the question had been such an obvious one: what, in the name of all the gods, was the Company going to do about their fourteenth shares?

None of them, except perhaps for Balin and Dwalin, had realized quite how vast a quantity of wealth they were now masters of. By contract and sworn oath, they were each of them richer than any mortal king west of Harad. Reactions to this were varied. Some of the dwarves were gleeful, a few describing in detail how they would spend their newfound wealth. Balin, who had grown up as the heir of a powerful noble family, was matter-of-fact. When Ori had attempted to calculate his own worth, he'd spent a few a few minutes scribbling numbers into his journal, then—once he'd checked and rechecked the sum total—turned deadly pale and practically toppled off his chair.

The trouble came when Bilbo pointed out that if each of them took their fourteenth share, Thorin would still be left with a fraction of his inheritance to rebuild Erebor. Even if Bilbo used his to pay every bit of the debt that they owed Bard, the coffers would be practically empty.

"Really, it wasn't very well thought out," Bilbo had said. "And a fourteenth share is an awful lot of gold for any one dwarf, isn't it?"

"Here now, what're you saying?" Nori said, defensively. "I signed that contract same as you, and I earned that fourteenth. I fought and bled the same as any of you. Don't you fuss none about how much it is, or how I plan to spend it. That's my concern."

Balin frowned. "You can't possibly realize what you're saying. You could buy Ered Luin twice over with that much money."

"Maybe I will," Nori retorted. "Why not?"

"Well, I reckon I'm staying with Thorin," Bofur put in. He looked questioningly at Bombur and Bifur. They nodded. "We got no use for those sort of riches. I say we let Thorin keep our shares—well, saving a few coins for needful things. I wouldn't mind having a fancy fur coat and a new hat and a new pair of boots, like. And ma's got some debts. It'd ease her mind to have them all paid off."

Glóin nodded approvingly. "Aye, we're lords now. That means land of our own, and mineral rights. We'll have money of our own once we open the old mines up and get folk to work them. Me and my wife, we just want to see our boy looked after. I didn't come along for the money."

"Not to say that it wouldn't be nice to have," Oín said hastily. "I wouldn't mind keeping my share, if it came to it. We signed a contract, after all."

Balin and Dwalin exchanged a brief look. "Our father had wealth of his own," Balin said. "We'll take what we're owed by right of lordship, but no more. We don't need the whole of our shares, not by my any means."

"Why bother with any of it?" said Dwalin, dismissive. "We don't need that old pile. We've got no folk to look after, not like father did—no guardsmen to keep, no sworn subjects. What do we need any of father's wealth for? It didn't bring him any great happiness that I can recollect."

Balin frowned. "I'm not so sure, brother. We'll be proper nobles one day, with households and subject of our own, and then we'll be glad of the money."

"You'll be a proper noble, maybe. But I don't fancy lording it over anyone."

"Well, you two do what you like," Nori snapped. "But I'm keeping mine, and so are my brothers, and I'll make it damned unpleasant for anyone who gets a notion to take what's ours."

Oín snorted. "So says the thief."

Nori made an abortive lunge across the table. Oín stood to meet him. Glóin hauled Nori back before either of them could land a blow.

"I'm not saying anything about taking anyone's share," Bilbo said, raising his hands defensively. "I'm just saying it's a lot of money, and maybe we should think about what we're going to do with it."

"It's all in the contract," Dori said, fluttering his hands anxiously. "We all signed it, after all."

_Contract_ became the watchword of the meeting. It was repeated over and over again by the dwarves who thought they had every right to the whole of their shares, thank you very much. Nori was the most vocal of that camp, but he wasn't alone. A handful of other dwarves, led by Balin, argued with increasing pointedness that they had more important things to worry about, and that Erebor wasn't going to rebuild itself, and hoarding so much of the mountain's gold was nothing more than selfishness.

"It's fine for you lot to talk about being selfish," said Nori, savagely. "You're the sons of nobles, and Thorin's cousins besides. You've got money aplenty back home. But gods forbid the common folk get their hands in the royal coffers, even if they've risked their lives for the privilege!"

"You're a lord yourself now," Dwalin pointed out. "Same as Balin and me, if that's what you're fretting over."

"Oh, I'm a noble, certain sure. Lord Nori the thief. Lord Nori of the gutter! This Council's a patch job and it won't last two minutes once the likes of Dain and Lord Barin get Thorin's ear. We'll be out on _our _ears like that." Nori snapped his fingers. "So I'll take my fourteenth and go back home to the Blue Mountains, thanks all the same. I'm not waiting around for Mahal's hammer to fall."

He rounded on Bofur and his brothers. "You lot would come with us, if you have any sense. You've got even less of a lineage than we do, and that's saying something. How long do you figure the nobles keep you around? They think folk like us dirty up the air just by breathing it."

"Mind who you're talking about," Dwalin growled. "Since when has anyone here treated you anything but fair? Thorin didn't say one word against you when you signed on. So you've been poor. Most of us have, one time or another. You think Thorin's never gone hungry?"

"No, but he never had to beg for his bread," Dori said, unexpectedly coming to his brother's defense. "Or steal it. Begging your pardon, but you don't know what it's like. And not everyone's as decent as you, Mister Dwalin. There's always merchants and nobles who look down on folk like us. Who's to say Erebor won't be more of the same?"

After that, Bilbo couldn't get a word in edgewise, no matter how hard he tried. After the first hour of petty arguments, broken up only by the occasional tussle and his vain pleas for order, Bilbo threw up his hands and stomped out of the tent. His optimistic glow, needless to say, was no more.

Just like the Sackville-Bagginses, he thought. Fighting over the money, of all things, when there was more than enough for everyone and Bilbo had never once suggested breaking anyone's contract. He had known that his dwarven friends were fractious, and more apt to argue than get along. But this was absurd.

Bilbo wandered a little way down the path, his shoulders slumped and his hands shoved in his coat pockets. What a miserable start! But in for an apple, in for an orchard, as his mother used to say. As soon as Thorin was awake and back on his feet, he could take charge, and Bilbo wished him the joy of it. Until then, Bilbo would just have to manage as best he could.

He settled down in a quiet corner a few hundred feet from the meeting tent, thinking hard. Nori and the others weren't causing trouble for the sake of it. They were afraid, and Bilbo could hardly blame them for that. Someone like Lord Varin would be glad to see Nori and his brothers thrown off the Council. And there was no denying that Thorin had a temper. Bilbo still wasn't certain that Thorin wasn't going to banish _him_, when it came down to it. So there was no point in telling Nori that he was being silly or stupid. That wasn't the problem.

The problem, Bilbo concluded, was the shouting.

The Company had fought goblins side by side, and journeyed together for months, and won a great battle against terrible odds. They loved their king. Even Nori, for all his bluster, would have died for Thorin a dozen times over—Bilbo was certain of it.

But dwarves were headstrong and touchy at the best of times, after the shouting got loud enough, no one even bothered to listen any more. Thorin had been able to control them; Gandalf could scare them into behaving with his thundering voice and looming presence.

But Bilbo was neither a king nor a wizard. He would have to bully, bribe, and cajole his new Council into getting along.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a familiar figure. Lord Varin, resplendent as always in his bejeweled armor, was speaking in low tones to a dwarf that Bilbo vaguely recognized as a herald. The herald had a sheaf of papers in his hand.

And quite suddenly, Bilbo had an idea.

In for an apple, in for the orchard, he thought again. If he was going to lead meetings of a King's Council, he might as well make a proper show of it.

He waited until Varin had left, and the herald settled at his work. Then he pounced.

* * *

When Bilbo returned to the meeting tent half an hour later, he had a scrap of used parchment in his hands. Varin's herald followed reluctantly at his heels.

The argument, instead of dying down, had dissolved into a general melee. The noise was deafening, and as far as Bilbo could tell, none of the dwarves had even noticed his absence. When Bilbo's request for silence went unheard in the general din, he nodded to the herald, who scowled but obediently blew a long, loud blast on his horn.

"If you would all please be quiet," he said, in the stunned silence that followed.

The dwarves, many of them still clutching their ears and wincing, obeyed.

"I have a list of rules here," Bilbo said, brandishing his little piece of parchment. "For our meetings. They will probably sound idiotic to you. I don't care. You're going to follow them."

He handed the list to Balin, whose eyebrows were raised almost to his hairline. He scanned the parchment, and his surprise quickly turned into grandfatherly condescension. He passed it to Dwalin, who read the first sentence and snorted with laughter, and so on round the circle, until it came to Ori, who studied the document carefully, most likely committing the entire thing to memory, before handing it back to Bilbo.

"Right," Bilbo said decisively, before anyone else had the chance to speak. "Here's what's going to happen. First, I'm going to tell you why you will be obeying these rules. Like it or not, from this moment forward you are the King's Council of Erebor. You stand for Thorin, just as much as I do, and Thorin will be judged by what we do. If we become fodder for gossip, a laughingstock, you're not shaming yourselves. You're shaming him, and his father, and his grandfather. So that's that."

Dwalin opened his mouth to speak. Bilbo shushed him, like a parent telling off an unruly child. Dwalin blinked, but kept his silence.

"Second," Bilbo said, relentless, "We're going to settle down and act like civilized folk instead of pretending to be a gang of ruffians at a tavern brawl. Third, you're going to _stop hitting your brother,_ Nori, he's only rude to you because he loves you and he's spent the last twenty years afraid that one day you'll be caught and hanged for stealing or smuggling or worse. Finally, we're going to get something done. Something useful. I don't know what, precisely, but we had better come up with something. Because that's what you're here for and that's what _I'm _here for and I have an appalling headache, so the next person who looks crossways at me is going to regret it."

Reactions to this speech were mixed. Ori was terrified. Balin simply raised his eyebrows and looked speculative. The rest of the dwarves ranged between the two.

Dwalin was torn between temper and awe; his estimation of the hobbit, already high, had soared to something like reverence, because how in Mahal's name could someone so tiny be so brave?

Bofur was trying valiantly to keep from laughing, not because of anything Bilbo had said, but because of his ferocious scowl. Brave little lionheart, he thought, and if Thorin's not in love with him before midwinter then he's daft. I'd go head over heels for anyone who fought for me like that.

And so it was for the others, more or less, though Dori was too embarrassed by Bilbo's frank commentary on his motives—he had spent most of his life pretending that Nori was nothing but an embarrassment to the family—to think of anything else.

If Bilbo had even the slightest notion what was going through their minds, his bravado would have crumpled like a tin trinket in a dragon's claws. As it was, he kept his chin up and ignored the fact that his hands, clutching tight to the parchment, were trembling.

"Can I go now?" the herald asked, sullenly. "Or are you conscripting me into this madhouse, too?"

Bilbo waved him away. "No, that's quite unnecessary. Thank you."

The herald offered a perfunctory bow and took his leave; he would not doubt be at Lord Varin's side in minutes, complaining about hobbits and their strange ways.

"Well, let's get on with it, lads," Bofur said once he was gone. "We can fight on our own time. And Bilbo's right. It's our job to look after things until Thorin's on his feet again, isn't it? And I reckon there's no shortage of things that need looking after."

Things got easier after that. There was less squabbling, at least, and Bilbo did away with the last of the shouting when he impulsively decided to relocate to Fili and Kili's tent. After all, he reasoned, if Fili couldn't leave his brother to attend meetings, then they would simply have to bring the meetings to Fili. He had worried at first that it might bother Kili, but Oín shook his head and told Bilbo not to fret.

"It'll do the lads good to have friends about them again," he said. "Aulë made our ancestors all seven together, after all." It was an old dwarvish proverb, and no one contradicted him.

As it turned out, the relocation was a stroke of accidental genius on Bilbo's part. All it took was one quiet plea from Fili—"I'm glad you're here, but keep quiet for my brother, would you?"—and all the other dwarves were as polite as if Gandalf had transformed them into a company of mice.

* * *

Early that evening, most of the dwarves headed down to the mess hall for supper, still debating heatedly about binding contracts and fourteenth shares. Whatever tensions lingered between the erstwhile Company were quick to fade, though Nori was quieter than usual and Dwalin and Balin sat apart from everyone else, deep in a quiet conversation of their own.

"Do you want me to write up the first half of the meeting?" Ori asked, handing Bilbo a small loaf of bread and an unappetizing potato. Bilbo had appointed Ori to keep meeting minutes, mostly to give the shy young dwarf something to do. "Only I wasn't taking notes, so I won't get it quite right."

Bilbo poked at his meager fare. "Er. I don't think that's necessary, Ori." There was no point in recording their incompetence for future generations. "We'll start afresh at tomorrow's meeting, how about that?"

Their plates were barely empty before the cooks kicked them out of the mess for taking up too much space. Bilbo dawdled, uncertain whether to keep his friends company or return to Thorin's side. Before he could make up his mind, Bofur grabbed him by the arm and tugged him along.

"You've been keeping company with kings and princes far too long, laddie. Surely you can spare an hour or two for your sorry old friends?"

Bofur sounded so hopeful that Bilbo couldn't deny him. "I'd like that," he said. It was only a small lie. They wandered out into the open air, jostling through the crowded encampment in search of some open ground. The last colors of sunset were fading to blues and blacks, and the temperature was dropping fast. Bilbo huddled in his coat, grateful for Bofur's friendly arm around his shoulders. Dwarves didn't feel the cold as hobbits did.

"I fear our time in the Blue Mountains has turned you soft, brother," Balin said as they walked. Dwalin, who had been grumbling about the cold, immediately fell silent.

Bilbo shivered. "Surely this sort of weather isn't usual. It's still late autumn, by Shire standards."

Balin laughed. "Why, this is hardly more than a cold snap. But don't fret, Master Burglar. We'll be snug inside the mountain before the blizzards come down from the Heath."

"Back home, children go out and play in the snow," Bilbo said, a little wistful. And pretend to be dragons when they do their chores, because their breath mists in the air."

Dwalin fell back to walk beside Bilbo and Bofur. "I used to do that," he said gruffly. "When I was a lad."

"Someday there will be children living here again," said Balin. He looked up at the mountain and shook his head. "I can't imagine it. There are still skeletons in the halls."

"We'll manage," Bilbo said stoutly. Shouts and good-natured protests broke out from the dwarves ahead of them, and Bilbo peered ahead into the gathering dark to see what the trouble was. Apparently Glóin had run into one of his cousins, and was treating him to a headlock by way of a greeting. "Or at least we might, if only we could stop fighting for more than a few minutes at a time."

"You can't blame the boys for acting out," said Dwalin. "The boredom settles in quick when there's nothing to do but laze about."

Dwalin was right. Except for the soldiers assigned to patrols and hunting parties, everyone stuck at the foot of the mountain with nothing to do except drink, play dice, and sharpen their weapons. There was no question of Dain returning to the Iron Hills, at least not yet. The treasure of Erebor no longer had a dragon to guard it, after all, and Bolg was still lurking somewhere in the Desolation. But in the absence of any better entertainment, the dwarves made their own, and petty fights were always breaking out among the less disciplined soldiers. According to Dain, there was nothing worse for discipline than an army sitting idle; Dwalin seemed to agree.

"When hobbits are bored, they play games or gossip or tend their gardens," Bilbo said. "Maybe I should start a scandal. Or I could show you how to make daisy chains, or teach you how to play Tig."

Dwalin never looked more terrifying than when he grinned. "Most dwarven sport is fighting, one way or another."

"I can't imagine why I'm not surprised," Bilbo said.

Eventually, they found their patch of bare ground and settled down for the evening, far enough away from the sleeping tents that no one could complain about the noise keeping folk awake. Oín and Glóin got a fire going, more for Bilbo's sake than anyone else.

"Do you know," Bofur said presently, "I keep on forgetting that we've won. And then I remember, and it's right strange to think about. I'm home at last, but it don't feel like home yet. And I haven't the foggiest notion what to do with myself now that I'm here. It's funny, isn't it?" He sounded simultaneously pleased and baffled.

"Don't go getting philosophical on us," Bombur said, tossing a pebble in his brother's general direction.

Bofur deftly caught the projectile and lobbed it back. "Oh, and what do you know about philosophy? Did you trip over a right proper education on your way to the mess last night?"

"Don't start," Bilbo said, burying his head in his hands. His headache was returning with a vengeance. "I really will start a scandal. Or teach you to play Tig."

Balin smiled and gave Bilbo a reassuring pat on the back. "You're already a scandal," he said. "But what's this Tig you were talking about?"

"Oh, it's just a silly children's game. You chase one another around, and one person is the Tig. The rest of the rules sort of depend on who's playing, and how. Sometimes you get thrown out of the game once the Tig catches you. Or you become a Tig, too, and then you can chase people as well. The cleverest children always came up with wretchedly tricky rules that no one could remember, and bullied everyone else into following them."

"I should've been born a hobbit," Bofur declared, looking delighted. "But it's never too late, is it? I want to play."

Bilbo laughed. But Bofur was in earnest, and soon he had rounded up the rest of the dwarves, dragging them to their feet and organizing them into teams with manic energy.

Balin was the only one who demurred—apart from Bilbo, of course, who watching with no little bemusement. "There are no teams in Tig," he said.

"But we get to make up the rules, don't we?" Bofur said. "And I say there should be teams. All proper games have teams."

Bilbo gave up. He was uncomfortably aware of how very much commotion they would soon be making, and a prim little voice that sounded disturbing like his father was reminding him that gentlefolk didn't make spectacles of themselves in public. If he wanted his Council to be respectable then surely they shouldn't be causing such a stir.

But Dwalin was right. The shine of the victory was fading. Everyone in the encampment was restless and bored, the dwarves most of all. Besides, Tig was a fine game. The dwarves could do with a few more hobbitish customs, and this was as good a start as any.

It took two broken noses before the game gathered a crowd, but it was only after a string of uncommonly foul curses—from Ori, to his eldest brother's horror—before the first of Dain's soldiers demanded that they be let in on the fun, as well. The real surprise came when a few of the Laketown men, curious about the commotion and hoping to find a brawl, settled down beside Bilbo and asked how the game was played.

"It's like something we play in the spring carnival," one of them said. Bilbo recognized him as one of Bard's friends. "Only without the ball, and—oh. Why did he just tackle him?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Bilbo said honestly. "I think Dwalin just likes tackling people, actually."

"Sounds like my kind of game," one of the men said, grinning. "Can we give it a go?"

"Er. As you like, I guess. Dwalin!"

"Eh?"

"Would you mind a few more players?"

"They're welcome, so long as they're not bothered by pain," Dwalin said, blood still streaming from his broken nose.

It had been twilight when the game began, and the dwarves showed no signs of quitting when night settled over the encampment. Most of the Laketown soldiers gave up and returned to the sidelines, bruised and exhausted, but a few stubborn men kept up the fight.

"I can't hardly see you," Bard's friend complained, after Bofur had knocked him down and shouted a gleeful "Tig!" before vanishing into the darkness.

"Dwarves are good at seeing things in the dark," Bilbo called, amused in spite of himself. "It comes from spending more time below ground than above it."

"Good to know. Gav, why do I do this to myself?" he asked plaintively, as one his fellows offered him a hand.

"Your ma dropped you on the head as a boy," Gav said. "Up you get, and help me beat these bastards."

Glóin took advantage of their momentary distraction to barrel out of nowhere and shove them both to the ground in a tangle of long limbs and cursing. "Watch who you're calling bastards," he called back his shoulder.

"Are we tigged, then?" Gav asked, breathlessly, propping himself up on one elbow. "Or was that a tog?"

The other man sighed. "How should I know?"

This time, he didn't bother trying to get up.

Bilbo was still laughing when an elf he didn't recognize hastened up to stand beside them. "I was sent to fetch Balin son of Fundin," the elf said in low tones. The rest of the dwarves, still busy breaking one another's heads, didn't hear. "Straight away, my lord Thranduil said."

Balin might have been offended by the presumption that the Elvenking could simply demand his presence, but there was no doubt in Bilbo's mind that it had something to do with Thorin. Balin must have come to the same conclusion; he went along without protest.

Thranduil hadn't asked for Bilbo, but that was a mere detail. If Thorin was conscious at last, then Bilbo needed to see it with his own eyes. He slipped away from the game and trotted off after Balin. About halfway up the winding path that led from the mess to Thorin's pavilion, he slipped in a shadowy corner and put on the Ring. As eager as he was to see Thorin alive and awake, he had no intentions of hastening his own exile, and he was painfully aware that as soon as Balin told Thorin what had been going on while he was unconscious, his welcome in the encampment might come to an awkward end. Even if Thorin didn't banish him, Bilbo was quite happy to do as Dwalin had suggested, and leave the king-wrangling to someone better qualified.

So he crept quietly to the pavilion and watched the silhouettes moving inside, casting shadows against the sturdy fabric. He arrived just in time to hear Thorin say, hollowly, "No. I don't believe it."

It might have been hard for a dwarf to hear the conversation, but Bilbo was a hobbit, and he eavesdropped without difficulty. As Balin talked, the stunned disbelief in Thorin's voice gave way to resignation, and then to rage, and Bilbo listened to it all with the same morbid fascination that compelled him to look over cliffs and stare at corpses.

He listened while Balin told Thorin all about Dale and the Council, and he listened as Thorin lost his temper and started to shout. At last, Thorin dismissed Balin with strict orders to keep quiet.

"I wish to be alone," the king said, hoarse and drained. Balin obediently left. Bilbo watched him go, then slipped off the Ring and walked shakily away, heading in the opposite direction.

There was no question of returning to the pavilion that night, or sleeping by Thorin's side as he usually did. And he couldn't bear to return to the game of Tig, though he could hear the shouts and cheering from halfway across the encampment. He wasn't in the mood for silliness anymore. Besides, the other dwarves might ask him why he looked so shaken and pale, and then he would need to scramble for a suitable lie. Instead, he wandered the encampment for what felt like hours, trying not to think too much about what Thorin had meant when he said "_I'll take care of our burglar myself." _

At last, tired and shivering and thoroughly wretched, Bilbo headed to Fili and Kili's tent.

Fili took one look at Bilbo and ushered him inside. "I'm glad about Uncle," he said without prompting. "Balin was here just a few minutes ago, trying to coax me up to see him." He looked down at Kili's pale face. His eyes were sunken, and his cheekbones sharp and gaunt. "But Thorin can come visit when he's better, if he wants to see us. I'm not leaving."

Bilbo stole one of Fili's blankets and buried himself in it, tucking his toes into the soft wool. Fili pressed a mug of hot tea into his hands.

"How did you get this?" Bilbo asked, after he'd taken a sip. "It's lovely."

"Bombur sent it up from the mess. He was worried, and he knows that you stop by every evening. He said you vanished in the middle of their final round of—Tig? Tog?"

"Tig," Bilbo said, letting the hot tea burn his tongue. "It's a silly game that hobbit children play. I taught it to Bofur as a lark, and he showed everyone else, and now I think we're well on our way to an official tournament."

"You should put in on the agenda for tomorrow's meeting."

"Right between _survive the winter_ and _rebuild your shattered homeland_?"

"Why not?" Fili shrugged. "Even old campaigners need an excuse to laugh, and the young ones just want to be entertained. That's what Mama always says. Kili and I were the best at it."

Bilbo almost smiled. "I certainly believe that."

"Mama wanted us to be princes, not exiles. So we spent a lot of time playing nice and charming people. Especially after we settled in the Blue Mountains, because Uncle isn't any good with that kind of thing. Kili was always better at making people laugh; he didn't get embarrassed like I did. But I was best at looking after children."

There was a rustle of fabric and the sound of heavy footsteps. They both turned to see Dwalin stepped inside the tent.

"Course you were," he said. "After looking after a demon like Kili, there wasn't a babe in Erebor you couldn't coax into behaving." He clapped Fili on the shoulder and nodded at Bilbo. "Mind if I interrupt?"

"Of course not," Fili said, scooting over a few inches to give Dwalin room on his cot.

Dwalin took the proffered seat with a grunt of thanks. "What have you two been conspiring about, then?"

Bilbo hesitated. Surely there would be no harm in telling Dwalin about Thorin? Balin would tell him soon enough, if he hadn't already. But Thorin had been very clear that no one else was to know—

Before Bilbo could make up his mind, Dwalin shook his head and said "Oh, don't bother. We both know Thorin's awake, and we both know you've been eavesdropping with that fancy ring of yours. How much did you hear?"

Bilbo shifted guiltily. "I might have followed Balin, and—well. Overheard some bits and pieces, as it were."

"Figured as much. Don't fret over it, if you can help it. He'll come around."

"Will he?" Bilbo asked, thinking of the way Thorin had raged and shouted himself hoarse, and snapped every time Bard was so much as mentioned.

"Course he will. I promised I'd look after the king-wrangling, did I?"

"So you did. I—well, thank you. For helping me."

Dwalin shrugged. "I'm not doing it for you."

It was a good reminder, Bilbo supposed, that he wasn't the only one who cared about the king. Dwalin had known Thorin for longer than Bilbo had been alive.

"Thank you anyway. Would you like some tea?"

"Nah. I've got to round up my brother. We've some things to talk about, me and Balin, and he's probably got a lecture all ready for me. Thinks I'm still a lad, I suppose. Brothers are like that." Dwalin clapped Fili on the shoulder and got to his feet. "Thorin was sleeping when I left. You could go back to the pavilion, if you like."

"I'd rather not push my luck," Bilbo demurred.

Dwalin took his leave, and Bilbo sat back to mull over what he'd been told. It was hard to share Dwalin's blithe confidence, but who would know Thorin better than his oldest friend? If Dwalin said that Thorin's temper was only a passing thing, then Bilbo would trust that it was so.

It was a comforting though. Perhaps there was some future for him in Erebor after all.

A gust of cold wind tugged at the canvas. Fili settled himself beside Kili, as if to help ward off the cold. Bilbo wordlessly gave him back the blanket, and Fili accepted it with a wan smile.

Bilbo shivered and took another sip from his mug. He had missed his tea more than anything in the Shire, except perhaps for his feather bed and his books. Most of the siege supplies from Dain's armies had been lost in the battle, when the goblins broke the lines and got into the baggage train, but Bilbo could have wept for joy when Dain said that there was still some tea left among the salvage.

"There was a miner in Ered Luin," Fili said, suddenly. He hadn't spoken since Dwalin left. "There was a cave-in. He got trapped in a collapsed mine shaft. It was a tricky thing, digging him out without risking a hundred tons of rock falling down on his head. The rescue crews broke through almost a month later, expected to find him long since dead."

"And?" Bilbo prompted.

"He survived. Nothing to eat for twenty five days and hardly anything to drink, stuck in the dark with no one for company. He never mined again. Couldn't even live underground anymore. But he survived."

"Dwarves are a hardly folk," Bilbo said. "Stronger than hobbits, at any rate."

"Aulë made us strong to endure. That's what Thorin always said. That we could endure anything, if only we were stubborn enough. Brave enough." Fili kicked hard at the frozen ground. "I hate this. I'm so sick of being scared."

"I think I understand," Bilbo said. He remembered all too clearly the poisonous terror of his weeks in the Elvenking's palace, the silent hysteria of creeping through the stone halls and stealing scant hours of sleep in dark, cramped corners. It had only taken a few days before he was bored to tears by his own racing heart and clammy hands. "At least a little."

Fili carried on as if Bilbo hadn't spoken. "I'm bored. That's shameful to say, but it's true. I'm bored stiff. I wake up in the dark and I check to see if my brother's died during the night, and then I sit at his side all day long. I'm cold and hungry and tired all the time. Sometime after the watch cries midnight, I pass out. A few hours later I wake up and check again to see if my brother's dead. That's a day in the life of Fili, prince of Erebor."

The bitterness in his voice was painful to hear. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered how much of Fili would survive if his brother died. Fili would never go mad like old king Thrór or turn coward like his grandfather. But in fairytales, it was always the gentlest hearts that ended up cold and cruel.

So much of what was good in the brothers was bound up in each other.

"I could bring you food more often," Bilbo said, tentatively. "If you're hungry. I didn't realize."

Fili shook his head. "Kili hasn't eaten in more than a week. What gives me the right to—" he cut himself off. "No. There's no point in talking about it."

Bilbo stared. "Would you mind if I stayed the night?" he said at last, voice a little unsteady. "Only I'd rather not go back to the pavilion just yet, and I don't have anywhere else to sleep."

Maybe he'd been wrong to think that Fili would never go mad. Surely he shouldn't be left alone, at any rate.

Fili tried to smile. It didn't suit him. "As you like. All those breakfasts you've brought us must be worth one night's lodging, at least. And I owe you double for the company this afternoon. It was nice, having everyone around again."

Soon after, Bilbo was curled up on the hard ground, exhausted, but too unsettled to sleep. Instead, he lay awake and listened to the sound of Fili's steady, even breathing. His thoughts drifted. In all the long days since the battle, he realized, Fili hadn't shed a single tear. He never wept. He never shouted. And, it would seem, he hardly ever ate.

Bilbo thought next of Thorin, as short-tempered and grim as ever. Thorin's complaints about Bilbo's silliness and stupidity reminded him of _more like a grocer than a burglar_; it seemed that after all they had been through together, they had come full circle to those miserable first days of the quest.

The thought stung, and Bilbo indulged in some quiet bitterness of his own on Thorin's ingratitude. But it was hard to be angry when he remembered Thorin sitting in the pavilion, exhausted by a simple conversation, looking as tired and pathetic as it was possible for a proud dwarven king to look.

How much of Thorin's anger was genuine, and how much was showmanship? He was weak, hurting, and desperately uncertain—though uncertain of what, Bilbo had no idea.

That realization was a harder blow for Bilbo than any he had been dealt on the battlefield. Bilbo had counted on Thorin to be strong, to give a few sharp orders and set everything right. But it occurred to him now that Thorin had been a soldier for far longer than he'd been a prince, and perhaps he was too used to war to give it up so easily.

Hours later, Bilbo drifted off to sleep at last, but his dreams were uneasy.


	8. Not So Easily Broken, Part 1

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 8

Not So Easily Broken, Part 1

**A/N: **You know how I swore that there was only one chapter of this plot arc left? Yes, well. That chapter turned into a _twenty thousand word monster_, and I split it up into two parts. It's all written, so the second part will be posted as soon as I can bribe my flawless beta readers into checking it over. (On which note, I would be crazily remiss if I didn't send all my love to Sara and Tiia and Katie, for being amazing friends and enduring all my Bagginshield flailing with extraordinary good grace.)

**Warning:** Once again, there's a very brief discussion of disordered eating near the end of this chapter.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

By dawn, rumors of Thorin's awakening had begun to fly across the encampment. But the king never so much as stuck his nose out into the open, and for all Dwalin's assurances, he never once asked to see Bilbo, either.

In fact, as far as Bilbo could tell, he didn't do much of anything. He hadn't even ordered the Bilbo's awkward little Council to halt their daily meetings. Bilbo had half-hoped that he would—he was dreading a repeat of yesterday's fiasco—but to no avail. Less than a day after Thorin opened his eyes, Bilbo was in Fili and Kili's tent once again, trying to fill Thorin's impossibly large boots. This time, he had the added burden of keeping Thorin's recovery a secret from eight of the twelve dwarves. Balin and Dwalin knew, of course, and so did Fili. Kili was in no condition to care. But Thorin was still insisting on keeping his recovery quiet from everyone else, an edict that Balin was enforcing with stern looks and conveniently-timed coughing fits. It was a dreadfully uncomfortable affair.

For all the time that Bilbo had known him, Thorin had been dedicated to his quest to the point of obsession. His apathy, following so hard on the heels of his victory, was unnerving. It had crossed Bilbo's mind once or twice that Thorin might be ashamed of his injuries. But that was a ridiculous thought. No one thought less of Ori for his limp, or mocked Bilbo for his headaches. And anyone who claimed that Dwalin was less of a warrior for being wounded in battle would walk away (supposing he _could_ still walk) with conclusive evidence to the contrary.

Well, there was no point in fussing about it. Until Thorin ordered him to do otherwise, Bilbo was going to carry on precisely as before. So instead of sleeping or raiding the mess hall for elevensies or enjoying the wintery morning sunshine, he was stuck he was jostling for space in a crowded tent, surrounded by twelve dwarves and arguing over gold for the second day in a row. There was no room for a table, so they were all sitting on the ground, companionably squished together.

"—and certainly nothing of any sentimental value," Bilbo was saying from his place between Bofur and Dwalin. "Just plain old ordinary gold, dull as ditchwater, if you please."

Nori made a face. "I've got plenty of words for a heaping pile of gold, but dull ain't one of them."

"Yes, well, it can shine like the moon and stars, just so long as it's not a commemorative mithril chalice or a cultural artifact or a family heirloom. The last thing I want is to give Bard yet another irreplaceable dwarven treasure. The poor man doesn't need any more enemies." He did, however, need money. The first of refugees from Laketown were arriving even as the Council met. Bard had no place to put them, and he could feed them only because the mess hall doled out meals impartially to the whole camp. There was a murmuring of discontent about that, and Bilbo knew it would only get worse as supplies ran short.

Dain hadn't bowed—yet—to his lords' indignant complaints that their salvaged foodstuffs, brought by the army of the Iron Hills to break the siege of Erebor, should be kept for the dwarves alone. But it was only a matter of time. Then Bard would come for his one fourteenth with one hand outstretched and the other unobtrusively wrapped around his sword hilt.

"What about jewels?" Balin asked. "We have thousands of uncut diamonds, provided that the dragon didn't pick through the treasure hall in search of cloth for his waistcoat."

"Unlike Smaug, Bard's going to spend it, not wear it," Bilbo said. "And he'll be spending most of it on dwarven goods and dwarven labor, I should think. A fair share will probably end up right back in Erebor's coffers."

There was a general rumble of satisfaction at that. "Maybe we should just keep Bard's share and give him a line of credit," Bofur suggested. "Save the labor of hauling it all up from the treasury only to haul it back down again."

Dwalin took a long swig from the huge mug that sat on the table in front of him. "There's a question," he said, wiping foam from his beard. "One fourteenth of Erebor's gold will make a tolerable mountain in its own right. Where's Bard planning on stashing it?"

"No way to keep it safe once it's outside Erebor," Nori said. "Not such a pile of loot as we're talking about."

Oín scowled. "Safe from who? I thought you'd traded in pickpocketing for brewing bad ale."

Nori opened his mouth, a sharp retort on his tongue, but his little brother, sitting close beside him, nudged him hard in the ribs.

"Remember Bilbo's rule," Ori whispered. The first item on Bilbo's list, the one that Balin had thought so ridiculous, read:_ Only one person can be angry at a meeting at any given moment. If you're the second, please be quiet or go outside and find something to hit. _

Nori sighed gustily and settled for giving Oín a dirty look.

"That's not a bad point, Nori," Bilbo said, trying to hide his giddiness at Ori's words and their effect. Judging by the expression on Balin's face, he hadn't succeeded. "I'll talk to Bard about it and see if he has any suggestions. In the meantime, shouldn't we at least make a start on figuring up exactly how much we owe him?"

"It's a shame about the records," Ori said. "And the library. At least some of the histories survived."

Dwalin drained his mug. "Histories be damned, I'd rather have the account books. Thrór was a cagey bastard, and it only got worse the older he got. I doubt even his old Council had any idea how wealthy we were."

Ori shrunk back into himself at the force of Dwalin's voice. Bilbo frowned repressively at the tattooed warrior and cleared his throat. Dwalin seemed oblivious to the effect he had on the youngest and shyest member of the Council, but Ori was quiet enough at meetings without Dwalin cutting him down whenever he spoke.

"We've less than half an hour before supper," Balin interrupted, looking weary and put-upon. "Have we actually gotten anything done today?"

There was a long pause. Ori, still red with embarrassment, glanced at his ink-splattered notes. Perhaps he thought the meeting minutes were privy to some revelation that no one else had noticed.

Bilbo couldn't blame Balin for his frustration. Trying to do Thorin's will had proven a thankless task for Balin, particularly—as Bilbo freely admitted—when there was a hobbit running around underfoot, making deals with the king's enemies and holding vaguely subversive councils and generally making a nuisance of himself.

"We're not very good at this, are we?" Bombur said, sounding mournful. "And the other cooks have ruined the afternoon's soup, like as not. I do more good in the kitchen than in a council."

"Nonsense," said Bilbo. It had been hard to keep them from fighting during Council meetings; it was far harder to convince the lower-born among them that had a right to be there in the first place. "We're managing all right, aren't we?"

Bofur grinned. "Don't fret, brother. We'll figure it out as we go along, and soon you'll be as keen a politician as ever haggled over nothing. Unless Thorin kills us all first. Then we won't have to figure out anything except our wills and last words."

"Don't be ridiculous," Bilbo said. "Thorin's not going to kill anyone. Not even me, though I expect he's tempted. Er. He will be tempted, that is. Once he wakes up. Whenever that might be."

Balin gave him another look, this one sharper and more severe. Bilbo cast around for something to distract attention, but before he could do more than stammer and look uncomfortable, someone unexpected spoke up.

"We've got a visitor," Fili said. He was sitting beside Kili, just as he always was, and the other dwarves had all crowded to the other side of the tent, to give the two of them space. "Outside. It's an elf." His voice was quiet, but it was the first time he'd spoken all day, and everyone turned to look.

Bilbo frowned. "Not Thranduil, surely."

"No. One of his sons, I think. He's got a human child with him."

"Oh. I'll see what they want," Bilbo said reluctantly. The last thing he needed was more trouble. He edged his way through the crowd of seated dwarves, trying hard not to kick anyone or tread on any fingers as he pushed by. "You lot, carry on without me. We've still got to figure out when we're going to move into Erebor. I'm sick and tired of spending nights out in the cold." He wiggled between Nori and Ori and slipped out of the tent.

And stopped in his tracks. And stared.

The sun was watery, but it shone stubbornly in the cold blue sky. Specks of dust and dirt drifted through the air, glowing like floating gold. Morning frost still blanketed the ground in the untrodden shade; thin sheets of ice turned muddy footprints and potholes filled up with dirty water into delicate plates of white and silver. Legolas was standing in the muck, blue eyed and pale, only a shade or two warmer than the ice. When he saw Bilbo, he smiled. He looked just as lovely and unreal as ever, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the skinny human child that was clinging to his side.

It was probably a girl, but at that age it was hard to tell, and her hair had been sheared off, exposing the ugly burns that spread across her face. Her clothes were filthy, and her eyes swollen and red. She was the first of the Laketown survivors that Bilbo had seen.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Legolas said, oblivious to Bilbo's silent dismay. "But the child is asking to speak to one of your dwarves. The one with the red hair and the bushy beard, she says."

"Glóin?" Bilbo said, blankly. "I don't—why?" It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if the child was all right, but he stopped himself just in time. Of all the foolish questions! Of course she wasn't all right.

The girl tugged at Legolas' sleeve, and he picked her up without a second thought, though she was covered in dirt and grime. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face in the collar of his tunic. Legolas said something to her in his strange, lilting language, holding her with the practiced ease of someone used to looking after children.

He looked up again, and sighed. "She won't say, but perhaps they met in Laketown. She has no family. Her mother and brother died when the town burned, and she doesn't know her father. I'm told that that she's a bastard." He pronounced the word carefully, with faint puzzlement, as if bastardy was a new, baffling concept for him. Perhaps it was.

"Er, right," Bilbo said. "Glóin! Someone's asking for you."

There was a chorus of grumbling and a few halfhearted curses as Glóin shoved his way through the crowded tent.

"What's so damned important—oh." Glóin's voice turned surly when he caught sight of Legolas. "If you've come to apologize, elf, you can save your breath."

There had been an incident in Mirkwood, Bilbo knew, though he didn't remember the details. Something about the locket that Glóin had kept throughout the journey, the one with the little paintings of his wife and young son. But then Glóin noticed the girl, and he stood and stared at her, brow wrinkled in momentary confusion. She had lifted her head up at the sound of his voice, and their eyes met. "Oh," he said again, this time with much more feeling. "Little Elsie? That you?"

She nodded, but still clung tight to Legolas. "I wanted to thank you," she said. Her voice was soft and scratchy. "For being so nice to me and my brother. You hadn't any cause to be. Most folk would've broke my fingers, or cried thief and got us sent before Master."

Glóin cleared his throat once, then twice. "You weren't no trouble," he said, gruffly. "Not one bit. A fellow ought to be pickpocketed now and then. It keeps him humble."

The girl smiled a little at that, and Legolas set her back down.

Glóin looked at her with more worry than Bilbo had thought the hardened old warrior capable of showing. "Do you—do you and your brother have a place to stay?" he asked. "Food, shelter? Someone to look out for you?"

"My brother drowned." Her voice was matter-of-fact. "Master came up with the townsfolk, though. I guess he'll see to us."

She fell silent, looking down and scuffing her bare feet against the frozen dirt.

"They've no shelter," Legolas put in. "And only what provisions they could salvage from Esgaroth. They cannot live on Dain's charity for long. My father has ordered that we supply Bard with our own winter stores, but it will be a lean winter regardless."

"For you as well as them," Bilbo pointed out.

Legolas shrugged his shoulders, an almost imperceptible movement. "So be it. We are not unused to hardship, and we've supplies enough to share—as you might remember, Mister Baggins. You made yourself very welcome in our halls."

"Yes, well," Bilbo said. "I am a burglar, you know."

Legolas smiled. "So I've heard."

Elsie was edging closer to Glóin. She was almost as tall he was, though he would have made four of her by weight.

"As I recollect it, your Master's no particular prize," Glóin said to her. "Leastwise not when it comes to looking after the likes of you. What about Bard? Maybe he'll take you on."

"Oh, he's a right proper lord now. Besides, he's got his own girls to look after. But it don't matter. I didn't come here to beg, sir, honest. I just wanted to say thanks."

"Seems to me it does matter, lass." Glóin sounded almost fatherly. "You and your folk need good sturdy lodging, and the sooner the better. But don't you worry none. I'll see to it."

"You will?" Bilbo and the girl chorused. It was hard to say which one of them was more startled. Even Glóin looked a little disconcerted, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just said. Only Legolas looked unsurprised.

"I—well, of course I will," Glóin said, rallying. "I'm a lord now, aren't I? Got all sorts of rights and privileges, and I'll use them as I like. You go with the princeling, Elsie. I'll take care of things here."

He strode back into the tent, and Bilbo followed at his heels, baffled and curious at the same time. The dwarves, to their credit, were actually having a civil discussion about how to make the mountain habitable again. Bilbo wasn't the only one who was sick of living in a cold, dirty shantytown.

"You lot!" Glóin said, interrupting a debate about the structural integrity of the entrance hall. "Stop yammering and listen."

Everyone obediently stopped yammering, and listened. Bilbo wondered enviously how he could learn to command that much attention on the power of his voice.

"There's a child standing not ten paces away from you that's got no kin and no shelter," Glóin said, "on account of a dragon burning her town to a soggy heap of ashes. She's barefoot and starving and cold, and there's hundreds of folk just like her. Now, it occurs to me that there's just shy of two hundred sturdy dwarves in this camp who've spent the last fortnight dicing and drinking. Getting put to honest work might do them some good. Anyone see where I'm going with this?"

No one spoke, but they did trade uncomfortable looks.

Glóin sighed. "Dale, lads. I want us to rebuild Dale for Bard and his people."

"Oh—but we don't like Bard," Ori blurted out. "Do we?"

"Thorin certainly doesn't," Balin reminded them, as if any of them could forget it. "And besides, the soldiers aren't ours to command. They're sworn to Dain and his lords, not to Thorin." He looked sternly at Bilbo, but Bilbo held his hands up defensively. For once, he wasn't the one making disagreeable suggestions; this time, at least, he was entirely innocent.

"So we don't command them," Glóin said. "We offer them wages and let them work or not as they like. Take it out of Bard's fourteenth, if you want. Or take it out of mine."

Dwalin grunted his approval. "Why not?" he said, ignoring his brother's sharp protest. "It'll keep the lads busy. Set half of them to working on Erebor and half on Dale. Bard's soldiers can help, and so can the townsfolk. We're to be neighbors; we might as well get used to the notion."

"I'm good for it," Bofur said. Never the most sensitive of dwarves, he didn't notice the sudden tension that had settled over the group, radiating outward from Balin and Dwalin. "Bard's soldiers played Tig with us, remember? Seems they're not so bad as all that, even if they did try to starve us out of the mountain."

It took a long time for Glóin to get the other dwarves on his side, but there was an edge to his determination that was hard to deny; he had never been shy about making his opinions known, and this was more than his usual brashness. Something about that little girl had bothered him. Glóin was the only one among the dwarves with a family of his own, Bilbo knew; his wife and son were waiting for him back in the Blue Mountains, and surely he missed them dreadfully. Was it his fatherly instincts that rebelled at the thought of leaving any children, human or not, out in the cold?

Bilbo hoped so.

* * *

For Bard, it had been a long, miserable day; the first of the refugees had arrived in the encampment in the early hours of morning. Bard had been on his feet ever since, struggling to find food and shelter for hundreds of tired, hungry people, many of them injured. It was thankless work. He knew too many of the women whose husbands had marched off with him to war, and it was his duty to grieve with the families of the dead. He held the children while they cried and promised stone-faced widows that their men had died well. Even when it wasn't true, and even when he didn't know. Even though it made no difference.

The soldiers had died, and the town had burned. What else was there to say? "He was a good man" meant but little to the pregnant girl, haggard and pale, who snapped back "He's a dead man now, so what does it matter?"

Bard was sick of it all by suppertime, and at dusk he headed back to his tent, desperate for a moment or two alone. There was only so much suffering he could take to heart.

His tent, so comfortable and uncluttered before, he now shared with what remained of his family. His two young cousins had appeared around midday, ushered towards Bard by one of their old neighbors. She had been willing to look after the girls, but was just as glad to be rid of them.

Bard had tried to make conversation, but with no luck. They were shy and silent in a way that he had never known them. Eventually he had given up, taken them to his tent, and told them to amuse themselves while he worked. When he saw how they were shivering, he left them his coat, dirty and worn as it was. He had nothing better to offer.

Now, as he returned at the end of the day, he walked carefully and noiselessly inside. He had guessed that they would be sleeping; after all, they had just travelled from Esgaroth to Erebor on foot. It was no surprise to see them curled up together in one corner, huddled under his coat and fast asleep.

What was slightly surprising was the third girl—most definitely not one of Bard's distant relatives, unless ones of his uncles had been fooling around where he shouldn't—who had mysteriously appeared and was drowsing beside them.

Or perhaps not. Bard moved almost quietly as an elf, in the general way of things, but the strange girl's eyes snapped open when he took a step toward her; she scrambled to her feet and stood braced for a blow, cringing a little.

Bard stepped back, slowly, his hands half-lifted. "Easy, child. I'm not angry. But I do want to know what you're doing here."

"The prince said I could stay," she said. "He said you wouldn't mind."

Bard sighed. He would have been more irritated by Legolas' habit of taking in strays if he didn't have the sneaking suspicion that he was one of them. "What's your name, then?"

"Elsie."

"Elsie. Right. Why don't you—wait." His eyes narrowed. He'd been distracted by the burns and the ragged hair, but there was something familiar about that pugnacious little nose, and the bright brown eyes, and those spindly limbs—

"I know you," he said. "You stole my money, didn't you? Last winter at market, your brother was the cutpurse and you were the distraction."

"That's right," she said, defiantly. "And we were good at it. Nobody better. Bet you didn't even notice we copped your coin 'til we was gone."

Bard had to give her that. "If you're planning on thieving from me again, you'll be disappointed. There's naught to steal." He spared a moment to be grateful that the Arkenstone was safe with Thorin. Keeping the thing would have been uncomfortable, once the dwarves of the Iron Hills got word of it, but losing it would probably have gotten him killed.

She said nothing.

He sighed again, raking a hand through his hair. He just wanted to sleep. Was that too much to ask? "Well, I guess it doesn't matter," he said aloud. "If Legolas said you could stay, then you can stay. You know my girls?"

"A little."

"Good enough. I'll just—leave you to your rest, then."

He turned to leave, had an uncomfortable thought, and turned back to grab up his sword, Legolas' knives, and both of their bows. Juggling weaponry and wondering where, exactly, he was going to go, Bard fled his tent.

The dragon killer, forced into retreat by his two tiny cousins and a pint-sized cutpurse. For lack of any better excuse, he decided to blame Legolas.

Fortunately, elves were considered a curiosity even among the folk of Laketown, who had been trading with them for years. Bard found one of his old friends among the guard and pulled him aside. "Gav, any chance you've seen the prince?"

Gaven, who had been laboring over the inglorious job of latrine digging, stuck his shovel into the frozen ground and leaned against it. "Last I saw he was going up mountainside," he said, jerking his head to indicate the dwarven side of the encampment, on the sloping ground that rose up above them. "But he said he might go down to Dale later. You could try the ruins?"

It was a long walk, but Bard was glad for the chance to escape the oppressive misery that lingered over the camp. He thanked Gav and went on his way.

He whistled idly as he walked: not out of happiness, but rather the same restless spirit that so had so often seized him in the long wake of the battle. The sun was sinking low on the horizon, casting streaks of fading light on the rocky ground. The mountains was framed in a halo of pink and orange clouds, lit from behind and glowing like some careless god had set the sky on fire.

Bard wondered if Legolas would teach him the names of the Valar. Surely an elf would know such things. It had never mattered when he was a guardsman, but a lord ought to know something of the gods.

There was no road to Dale, but the ruins still stood crooked and crumbling in the graying light. He walked briskly, lungs aching as he breathed deep of the harsh northern air. All his life, ever since he was a little boy, he had looked over the water towards the mountain, and wondered what it would be like to stand among the rocky foothills, or to see the ancient skeleton of Dale sketched out in the brown tufted grass, tumbledown stones buried under a century of dirt and ash.

Now he was here, carrying more weapons than he knew what to do with, kicking at pebbles and hiding from his duties for a few stolen moments. Soon he caught sight of Legolas, kneeling by a cairn on the edges of the old city. He was resettling the stones one by one. He heard Bard's footsteps, of course, but he didn't look up until Bard was kneeling beside him.

"This was a tomb once," he said. "For a young lord who took ill and died."

"You knew him?"

Legolas nodded. With slim, steady hands, he tugged a stone out of the dirt and set it atop the growing pile. "He was Girion's brother. The three of us used to hunt under the boughs of the Greenwood."

Bard looked at the pile of plain stones with new eyes. This was the grave of one of Bard's own kin, distant and unremembered as he had been. He brushed his fingers against the hard ground, tracing the letters of his own name but making no mark. "I didn't know Girion had a brother," he said. "I don't know much about him at all, when it comes to it."

Legolas sat back on his heels, surveying his work. "Someday I'll tell you stories about him."

"Will they be true?"

"All my stories are true," Legolas said. "I thought you had learned that."

"Stars and kings and cursed jewels? I wasn't born yesterday, prince. Likely enough you have a story to explain the unexpected guest I found in my tent this evening, too."

"Oh, the child stayed?" He sounded surprised. "I thought she'd been gone the moment I turned my back. But she needed a safe place to sleep, Bard. She's not well-liked amongst her townsmen."

Bard raised his eyebrows. "I wonder why."

"And I wonder at the cruelty of townsfolk who would so ill-treat their own children."

Bard scowled, but he took only cursory offense. There was too much truth in the words for comfort.

"It won't be like that in Dale," he said, though he knew how foolish that sounded. "It will be a good city. An honorable city." He rubbed his hands against his arms, wishing vainly for his coat, and added "If I get it built before we all freeze to death, that is."

Legolas glanced over at him. "If," he agreed. "That stone, the one by your hand—may I have it?"

Bard dug it out of the dirt and handed it to him, but he wasn't fooled by the distraction. It was a mark of how much time he'd spent with Legolas that Bard was starting to recognize his smiles, few and faint as they were.

"You know something that I don't," he accused, as Legolas set the stone in place. "More than usual, I mean."

"Do I?" Legolas said. He didn't meet Bard's eyes, but his lips twitched with the effort of hiding the telltale expression. He must have been dreadfully bored with his kin in Mirkwood, Bard thought, if he took such delight in tormenting a simple village guardsman.

"You're a brat," Bard said. He slumped down with a small, pained groan, letting himself collapse back onto the ground. He was too tired to care about propriety. "Gods, but I hurt. If an honest day's work ruins me so, I'll be an old man by midwinter, griping about my aches and pains. And If I'd known I had this to look forward to, I would've gone out to the docks and asked Smaug snap me up as he flew by."

"You would make but a poor meal," said Legolas. And then, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You've worked just as hard as I have. Give me a moment and I'll work up some resentment about that. Do elves ever get tired?"

"Of course we do, sometimes. We just don't need rest as mortals do."

"I wish I'd been born an elf," Bard muttered, and closed his eyes.

But he couldn't sleep, not yet. He was lying in the midst of an abandoned ruin, for one. For another, there was still work for him to do. The first of the promised supplies from Mirkwood would be arriving in a day or two, including timber and tools to build proper winter shelters. But once he had them, he would have to figure out what to do with them. There weren't any architects or surveyors among the men of Laketown—at least, not anymore. There were builders, but only the rough common sort like Bard himself, who had split his childhood summers among the guard and the construction gangs that had so carefully built up their homes on the lake, year after year.

"We could go back to my father's tent," Legolas offered, as he put the last stone in place. He brushed his hands off and looked down at the rebuild cairn with an air of quiet satisfaction. "He doesn't use it, since he's staying with Thorin. And I've been imposing on your hospitality for far too long as it is. Thank you for bringing my weapons."

Bard knew he should get up, but he couldn't bring himself to move. "Couldn't see leaving your little cutpurse alone with them."

Legolas shook his head, amused. "You're too tired to be any good to anyone, Bard. Come back with me and get some rest. I'll wake you in the morning, if you'd like."

"No need. The little ones will wake us all before dawn, with their screaming and crying. There aren't enough women to look after them, and everyone's miserable and short tempered besides. Share that good news you've been so smug about, why don't you? I could use something to smile about."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Legolas said. He still looked unaccountably pleased with himself. "But I will tell you this. Thorin Oakenshield is awake."

Bard sat up so fast that his head ached in sudden protest. "I thought it was just rumor," he said. "You're certain? He'll live?"

"My father told me this morning," Legolas said. "It's something of a secret, yet."

"Not for long." Bard had grown up among the gossips of Laketown, and he knew that soldiers were as good as old maids when it came to rumors and speculation. "Damn. I was getting used to having Bilbo around to make everything so agreeable for us. But Thorin's no friend of mine, and neither are his cousin's lords. I doubt even the stubbornest hobbit will have much account with folk like that."

"Perhaps not," Legolas said, holding out a hand and helping Bard to his feet. "But according to my father, Bilbo Baggins is the match of any soul living for sheer contrariness. And even dwarves know how to be decent, in the end."

* * *

Thranduil had made it brutally clear that Thorin was in no condition to be doing anything. His body was weak from almost ten days of inactivity, and from months of short rations, hard travel, and frequent combat before that. His ribcage was a half-healed wreck, and he could easily take a turn for the worse if he tried to force his recovery. Thranduil said this often, at every opportunity, until at last Thorin lost his temper and roared that if Thranduil said another word about his weakness and frailty, Thorin would test the claim by throttling him.

A full day had passed since he'd first awakened, and Thorin was feeling more like himself every moment. When Thranduil left to fetch his dinner—Bilbo was busy with his own work, according to Thranduil, who complained often about the loss of his favorite errand-boy—Thorin hauled himself up and stumped outside, the fresh cold night air filling his lungs. The petty rebellion wasn't nearly as satisfying as finally escaping that damnable pavilion, which had started to feel more like a funeral shroud than a shelter.

Thranduil might be back at any moment, so Thorin walked away as quickly as he could. He'd already decided that he would go to the mess hall. If he felt weak, his meals of water and weak broth were likely half of the reason, and if Thranduil wouldn't condescend to give him proper meals then he would go and get decent, hearty food cooked by his fellow dwarves.

The hall was easy to find. It was the bright center of the camp, a flurry of movement and conversation, sparks and smoke from a few cooking fires still drifting up from the makeshift chimneys, thought it was long after supper and most of the camp was abed.

Occasionally, Thorin passed one of his fellows. No one looked twice at him as he walked through the narrow, winding pathways that led between tents and makeshift shelters. As far as anyone knew he was just another tired, wounded dwarf, some haggard warrior too restless to sleep.

He ignored the trembling in his limbs and the dull ache that blossomed through his body with every breath. Instead, he listened to the muted, sleepy chatter around him, and exchanged nods with the soldiers that he passed, grateful for the moment that his long exile had left him unknown among his own people. His name was famous, but only the Company and a rare few of Dain's older subjects and lords would recognize his face.

It occurred to him that Thranduil might have been right, and that he should still be abed; he felt as fumbling and awkward as a gangling adolescent. He ignored the traitorous thought and grimly carried on, breathing heavier at every painful step. He was almost there.

And then, only a few steps from the inviting warmth of the mess hall, he lurched, cursed, and promptly tripped over his own two feet.

The world twisted around, the ground rushing up to meet him. Years of combat training saved his life once again: he threw out his hands in front of him and let his arms and palms take the worst of the impact. Bones grated in his chest, and a sudden, shattering pain drove all the air from his lungs. If he'd landed on his broken ribs, he thought, dazedly—

"Cor! You all right, lad?" Through the haze of pain, Thorin heard a gruff voice and the sound of booted footsteps. A rough hand settled on his shoulder and patted his back while struggled to breathe.

"Fine," he choked out. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, sure. You look it. Come on, up you get—anything broken?"

With the other dwarf's help, Thorin clambered back to his feet. "Nothing that wasn't already," he said stiffly. "My thanks."

The sting of humiliation faded a little when the dwarf grinned and waved the words away. He was one of Dain's soldiers, but Thorin didn't see anything to mark his family, or what lord he served under in battle. His face was battered and livid with bruises, and his noise badly broken. The weathered skin around his blackened eyes crinkled when he grinned, and he held one hand out to keep Thorin steady. "Where're you headed?"

"To the mess hall. I'm fine. I just need food and a moment to—to breathe."

But the dwarf was stubbornly deaf to his protests, and he walked Thorin along the last few yards of the path. Neither of them spoke, but Thorin nodded at the old dwarf as they parted ways, just in front of the mess. The soldier whistled as he walked back into the darkness. The moment he was safely out of sight Thorin collapsed against the rough wooden wall, shaking from the simple exertion. A fine king he made, unable to walk across his encampment unaided!

He composed himself, waiting until he could breathe more or less normally and had mastered his treacherous body once more. Then he stepped inside the door to the mess hall, which swung open on its crude hinges.

The hall itself was a wide, open space, the provisional stoves and cooking fires set along the far side. Outside, it was a chilly night, and a stiff gusting wind rattled boards and canvas across the camp, but inside the hall the air was quiet, and warm with the light of banked fires. The cooks were cleaning up the remains of supper. Tomorrow's bread was already baked and cooling, and huge cast iron pots of soup simmered down to meat and broth.

Still, it was not as much food as an outsider would have expected for so large an encampment. Animals were scarce in the Desolation, and most of the supplies brought to the mountain by Dain's army had been destroyed in the battle, when the warg-riders broke the dwarven lines and ravaged the baggage train. But the elves and dwarves had pooled what food remained, and the Laketown survivors had brought what winter stores they had been able to salvage from the dragonfire and cold rushing water.

For a moment, Thorin stood in the shadows, watching unnoticed as the cooks and assistants went about their work. He saw Bifur and his cousins in the crowd. It was good to see his old Company—now his Council, absurd as that was—alive and doing honest work, just as they had in Ered Luin.

Inevitably, though, Bifur turned around, caught sight of Thorin standing in the shadows by the door, and dropped an entire armful of dishes in his rush to send up a flurry of hand signs. "_Melhekh_," he said, in strangled Khuzdul. _Our king._

Bofur was the first to react to his brother's proclamation; he turned, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Thorin. Immediately, he abandoned the stoves and rushed towards him, a cheer on his lips. Thorin braced himself for one of Bofur's crushing, impulsive hugs. But Bofur came to his senses, hesitated a scant distance from Thorin, and sketched a bow. Then he pulled him into a gentle embrace, hands fluttering over Thorin's shoulders as if he didn't know where to put them.

"Our king," he said, following Bifur's lead. He stepped back and bowed again. "Can't tell you how fine it is, seeing you up and about. Half of everybody gave you up, what with the elf king poisoning you and who knows what else. Some of Dain's boys had a bet about it and they were a dreadful rude gang, but we stopped that quick when we got word of it, never you fear, and—"

Thorin let the words wash over him, soaking them up like water after a drought. How had he ever believed that Bofur and his family were nothing more than impoverished miners? How had he dared to think that Bofur was but a tactless nuisance, too uncultured to respect his betters? Thorin remembered those unkind thoughts from their first days on the road, but it was as if he was peering in on the mind of a stranger.

Dear, brave, ridiculous Bofur, he thought now. Lord Bofur, for a seat on the Council meant a lordship, and lands to rule, and a title that his children would one day inherit. Sudden affection tugged at his heart, sharp and a little bit painful. Perhaps some good had come out of Bilbo's ineptitude after all.

The crowd of dwarves was split. Most of them he didn't recognize, and they hung back, uncertain what to do or say. He was a strange figure indeed—an uncrowned exile, Durin's heir returned from the dead. But more than half of his Company seemed to be here, and they had crowded around him.

Soon they were all chiming in with Bofur's stories, laughing and talking over one another. Joy and relief were a heady brew, and it loosened their tongues. When Thorin began to waver on his feet, the noise and commotion making his head ache and swim, a chair appeared and he was swept into it as if by magic. For a moment he was ashamed of his frailty, but his dwarves were looking at him with a mix of pride and disbelieving awe, as if he was a treasure worth protecting.

It was hard to remember that he was weak—that he was flawed, that he needed to be strict and relentless—when little Ori was staring up at him with something dangerously close to hero worship.

No sooner had he mentioned that he was hungry than Bombur hurried off to the stoves, half a dozen of his assistants trailing like ducklings in his wake. No weak broth or stale bread for the King under the Mountain; in short order, a gently steaming bowl had been set on the table in front of Thorin, rich with meat and herbs, and a loaf of bread still soft and warm from the ovens, alongside a mug of Nori's latest experimental brew.

No sooner had the mug touched the table than Oín snatched it away, muttering dire warnings about what happened to dwarves who tried to drown their kings with poisonous slop. Nori scowled and threw himself into a heated defense of his distillery, but he cast small sideways glances at Thorin the whole time, and the argument—a little exaggerated and silly, even for the Company—gathered steam for Thorin's benefit.

Thorin ate quietly, grateful for the distraction and the friendly commotion. In the pavilion, he had spent hours lying in wretched solitude, alone but for his own bleak thoughts and the sour, silent Elvenking. It was good to have friendly company again, and to see his dwarves home and safe at last. The dragon was dead, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. Erebor was his, and they were home. He would finally be able to protect his own.

That took him to thoughts of Fili and Kili—but no, no, he would not think of that.

He forced himself back to the warm, cheerful argument that was still raging about him. But something of his bleak unhappiness must have shown on his face, because the Company slowly quieted around him. The other dwarves had returned to their work at the stoves, or at least pretended to, and left seven members of the Company sitting at one of the tables at the other end of the hall, arrayed around Thorin.

"We knew you were awake, of course," said Glóin, confidentially. "Dwalin and Balin didn't say anything, and neither did Dain, but the gossips were fluttering all last night, and by morning everyone was talking about it. Good news travels fast as ill."

"And Bilbo was all fussy and strange at Council this morning," said Bofur. "Fussier and stranger than usual, I mean."

Thorin looked up from his meal. "Oh, the Council," he said, a bit more sharply than he'd intended.

A rustling, uncomfortable quiet descended. Glóin coughed.

"Um," Ori said, tremulously. "We—um."

"Never mind that now," Thorin said, somewhat pacified by the uncomfortable looks being traded around him. It wasn't their fault that Bilbo had decided to meddle. And it wasn't as if there was anything to be done about it. Once a dwarf had been appointed to the Council, they couldn't be removed except by royal edict, and only if they had committed treason or some other grievous offense. So Thorin had his Council, like it or not. He would simply have to make the best of it, and live with the consequences.

"Where is the rest of the Company?" he asked instead, leaning back in his seat.

"Dori helps out at the healer's tents," Ori offered.

"Aye, Oín too," Glóin said.

"Fili and Kili—well, I guess you know where they are," said Bofur, as indelicate as ever. "And Dwalin and Balin are off arguing, like as not. That's all they've been doing since last night. Over Bilbo and the Council and suchlike. Don't suppose you could knock some sense into them?"

That was interesting news. Dwalin almost never broke with his brother; he was one of the most steadfastly loyal dwarves that Thorin had ever met. And off the battlefield, Balin had always been mild-mannered to fault. "Perhaps," Thorin said. "I'll speak to them, certainly. And yes. I know about my nephews."

"They're in one of the tents up on the slopes," said Bombur. "I bring them meals sometimes, when Bilbo can't manage it. I could show you up—if you'd like, I mean. It wouldn't be a trouble. Sire."

The offer was awkward, but painfully sincere. Thorin couldn't bring himself to refuse, though he wasn't sure how many more wounds his heart could bear. He pushed his chair back and forced himself to his feet. "Yes," he said. "You may take me to them. Thank you."

He wasn't thanking Bombur alone. He didn't have the words for his gratitude, but perhaps the dwarves understood, because Bofur grinned and Ori blushed and the rest chorused goodnights as Bombur led him out of the kitchens.

Bombur apparently felt obligated to make conversation. He chattered about trifles as they walked. Thorin forced himself to listen; it was a distraction, if nothing else. This time, a few stares and murmurs followed them; Bombur was well known around the camp, and his obvious deference was unmistakable. But it was dark, and for the most part quiet, and no one approached them or caused any great stir.

With one exception.

No sooner had Bombur pointed out Fili and Kili's tent, lit from the inside by the warm glow of lamplight, than a very small, very familiar figured stepped outside, silhouetted by the dim light. He hadn't seen them, but Thorin and Bombur recognized him in the same instant.

Thorin cursed, softly and with feeling. The hobbit, of course. It seemed there was to be no avoiding him.

"Well, here we are," Bombur said, loudly.

Bilbo glanced over at the sound of his voice, and his jaw dropped. "Oh," he said, faintly. "Oh. Hello."

"I should get back to the soup," Bombur said as he sidled away. "Make sure they haven't—burned it." He made an expeditious retreat down the slopes, but if Thorin noticed, he gave no sign of it. His was staring at Bilbo, an impossible roil of emotions tangling in his stomach.

Bilbo walked up to meet him, his head held high and his hands tucked into the pockets of an absurdly large and ill-fitting coat. He was pale and wan, and the lines of his face were sharper than Thorin remembered, but he looked so familiar that Thorin had to repress a sudden, startled laugh. He had been imagining—well, he didn't know what he'd been imagining. The last time Thorin had seen the halfling he'd been a battered little soldier wearing mithril armor, blood drying in his hair, his cheeks damp with tears.

"You," Thorin said, but there words failed him. "_You_."

"Er, I'm afraid so," Bilbo said, stopping in his tracks. He was keeping just out of reach, Thorin realized. He looked resigned, not scared, like a dog that had grown accustomed to being kicked.

It was an unwelcome thought, and Thorin tried to ignore it without success. In the end, he only shook his head and sighed. "Go away, Mister Baggins. I'm too tired to be angry with you right now."

"I should say so!" Bilbo said, peering up at Thorin with sudden concern. "You look dreadful. You snuck out when Thranduil wasn't looking, didn't you?"

Thorin did not appreciate being told off like a wayward child. He especially did not appreciate the implication that he owed the Elvenking even the tiniest scrap of obedience or consideration, and he told Bilbo so in no uncertain terms.

"Yes, yes, that's well and good," Bilbo said once he was finished, in the same tone of voice he used when arguing with wizards and trolls and—for all Thorin knew—vengeful dragons named Smaug. "But if you catch cold and sicken and die because you were too stubborn to stay in bed when you ought, I will be extremely angry with you, Thorin Oakenshield. I hope you realize that."

This particular conversation was not going as Thorin had expected. In particular, he had imagined rather less scolding, and a good deal more righteous anger on his part. But why should he be surprised? Things never went as they should when Bilbo Baggins was around; no one had ever confounded Thorin so often, or so thoroughly.

"Dwarves don't get colds," he said, stupidly. And then: "Oh, for the love of—leave. Now. I want to see my nephews. When I can speak to you without shouting and throwing things, I'll send for you."

But still, Bilbo didn't leave. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes," Thorin snapped, temper fraying. "If you happen across Bolg, or Durin's Bane, or any other creature bent on the ruin of my kin, don't bid them settle at the gates of my kingdom."

"Bard's not a creature," Bilbo protested. "He's nice, really, once you get to—"

"If you say 'once I get to know him', I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Bilbo ducked his head, stuck his hands deeper in his pockets, and slouched off into the night, looking thoroughly frustrated and downtrodden. Thorin reminded himself that there was no reason to feel guilty about that, but even his thoughts suddenly lacked in conviction.

The prickling remorse only soured his temper more. But he hadn't come to trade petty words with the hobbit. He took a ragged breath, but before he had stepped inside the tent or made his presence known, Fili stuck his head out and said: "You can come in, you know. Unless you'd rather chase after Bilbo and shout at him some more."

Thorin obeyed.

"It's good to see you," he said, glancing around the modest, barren accommodations. Soon, he promised himself, something of his old determination flickering to life inside him. Soon his nephews would have a home that befitted their stations, suitable for princes of Durin's royal line. If it was within his power to make it so—if there was any sacrifice he could offer that would see Kili alive and well again—he would see it done.

His eyes fixed on Kili, lying motionless and battered on a rickety old cot. The bruises that mottled his face and neck were fading in sunbursts of green and yellow, and the most superficial of his wounds had scabbed over, but there was no ignoring the white cotton wrapped around the stump of his right arm, the limb hacked off just below the elbow. Thorin swallowed hard, and reached out to brush a few errant strands of hair away from the boy's closed eyes.

"He's getting better," Fili said. "No one believes me, but he is. Sometimes he reaches for my hand, or his eyes flicker a little. I think maybe tomorrow he'll wake up."

"What do the healers say?"

"They don't say anything to me anymore." Fili was unnervingly composed, his voice flat and even. "Or at least, most of them don't. The Elvenking visits sometimes."

Thorin couldn't decide whether he was angry at Thranduil for the presumption, or grateful that he had been willing to look after his enemy's children. "Kili's not one to give up without a fight," he said, putting a gentle hand on Fili's shoulder. "And he would be loath to leave you behind."

He'd meant the words to be a comfort. But Fili crumpled at them.

Whatever strength of will or composure had carried him thus far without tears or evident emotion, it had deserted him. He bit his lip hard enough to break the skin, but his eyes were already welling up. A jagged sob clawed its way out of his throat.

Thorin watched in shock and no little horror as Fili covered his face with his hands and slumped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He stood for a moment, frozen with indecision; he hadn't seen either of his nephews cry since they were children. They had always been so proud to be their uncle's heirs, and so determined to be strong for him. And only moments ago, Fili had seemed so unruffled. So hale and whole, compared to his lifeless brother.

Fili tried to compose himself, taking deep shuddering breaths and straightening his shoulders, but when he tried to speak he could only manage a breathless "Uncle, I'm sorry—" before his shoulders were shaking with repressed sobs.

Thorin knelt beside him, ignoring the pain the movement caused, and cradled him close. He couldn't bear to see the boy so wretchedly unhappy. Fili clung to him like a lost child. He said his brother's name over and over, soft and keening, like the cry of some broken bird. Thorin held him and said nothing.

Eventually, Fili buried his face in Thorin's shoulder, his grief spent. His golden hair fell unbound around his face. Thorin's hand caught on the tangles as he stroked it.

"Let me?" Thorin asked, and felt Fili nod in assent.

When Fili and Kili were children, running wild across foreign villages and sleeping in hovels, Thorin had often been the one to plait their hair and send them off to bed, so it was familiar work. He hummed a lullaby as he coaxed the knots out of Fili's hair and pulled it back into a simple braid. It was an old tune, an ancient lullaby of the children of Durin. It had soothed generations of his family to sleep.

"I know that song," Fili said, voice unsteady. "Mother used it sing it to us."

Thorin nodded. "And my grandmother to your mother and I, when we were children."

"And to Frerin?"

Thorin closed his eyes. His beloved golden brother, so bright and beautiful. So much like Fili in looks, and so like Kili in spirit—how Frerin would have loved his nephews, had he lived long enough to know them.

"Yes," he said aloud. "She sang to Frerin, too. Now, what have you done with your silver clasp?"

Fili shook his head. "Gone," he said. "I don't know where. Kili's, too."

It was nothing to weep over, but Thorin felt the tightness in his throat nevertheless. Fili and Kili's hair clasps had been old and battered, made of nothing but plain silver, but once upon a time they had belonged to the dowager queen. Thrór had given them to her when she was a tiny lass and he even younger, along with the promise that one day he would be a mighty king and she would be his wife.

Thorin had often heard the story of his grandparents' courtship, and he remembered how Dís had smiled, bright and beautiful, when she had found the clasps in her trousseau on her wedding day. "Look what Grandmother gave me," she had said, and held them up so they shone in the light. "Aren't they beautiful, brother? One day I'll have a daughter of my own, and give them to her, and tell her all the stories of our family."

Dís had brought the clasps with her into the wilds. And she might have wanted a daughter, but she would have traded anything to keep her sons alive, even the last of her grandmother's heirlooms. Silver was a petty treasure in the face of their exile: cold autumn nights, and hunger pangs that made tiny, toddling Fili curl up and cry. She pawned the clasps in a human village a few days before Kili was born.

Later that winter, Thorin sold his father's sword to buy them back, cursing the broker who had demanded more in coin than he could ever hope to pay. What wouldn't he have done, that winter, to see his sister's haggard face light up? It had been worth it to see her smile when she opened her present on midwinter's eve, and to watch baby Kili coo and bat at the silver with chubby fingers, babbling words that only Fili could understand. It had been worth it to see Fili standing on his tiptoes to peer over the edge of the bassinet, his eyes wide and his touch soft, as if he couldn't quite believe that his infant brother was real.

"It doesn't matter," Thorin said now, ignoring the aching chest that had nothing to do with his wounds. "Trinkets are easily lost on the battlefield. There. All done."

"Thank you," said Fili softly. But for his old clothes and his tearstained face, he looked almost respectable again.

"You're welcome, lad. Now, up you get." Thorin kissed Fili's brow and drew him up.

Fili staggered, but Thorin held steady until the boy was standing, quiet but whole. "You're too light," he said, startled. He realized that he could see the curve of Fili's collarbone, and even in the dim light his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief. "Have you been eating?"

Fili shrugged. "Not hungry."

Thorin's grip on Fili's shoulders tightened. "You must be strong for your brother, Fili. When was the last time you ate?"

"Bilbo brings something from the mess every morning. Sometimes I have that."

"Well, at least the hobbit's good for something. I'll see that you're brought a plate for dinner as well, and I want—"

"Two," Fili blurted.

"What?"

"Two plates. One for me and one for Kili."

Thorin nodded slowly. "As you wish. But none of your childish games, Fili. Promise me that you'll eat?"

A dull blush bloomed in Fili's cheeks, but he met his uncle's eyes and nodded. "Yes. I promise."

Thorin pulled him into another embrace. "That's my brave lad."

He hadn't been so affectionate with either of his nephews since Kili was a babe in arms, but that didn't matter. Thorin might have been weak and wavering, caught between his years in exile and the strange new life that was laid out before him, but he would be strong for Fili and Kili. That much he could do.

"I am so very proud of you," Thorin said, roughly. "My heir, my own—"

Fili didn't start crying again. He just wrapped his arms around Thorin and held tight.


	9. Not So Easily Broken, Part 2

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 9

Not So Easily Broken, Part 2

**A/N: **At very long last, we've reached the end of the first plot arc! A preview of what's coming in chapters ahead: winter in Erebor, Dale's growing elf collection (they just keep showing up), and the dubious morals of the Master of Laketown. Also Thorin falling in love with his hobbit, soldiers going missing on patrols, a sad Fili, and a very worried Gandalf.

Thank you, as ever, to all the amazing people who are taking the time to read this. And I wouldn't have made it this far without the reviewers both here and A03. I can't say enough how much I appreciate you all; you make this fandom awesome.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

An outsider might have assumed that the encampment's resident wizard was staying aloof because he had no interest in politics, or because as one of the Wise he was loftily above gossip and scandal, or because he didn't care for the lowly creatures that surrounded him now that his immediate work was done.

None of this was true.

Gandalf was enormously fond of the dwarves he had shepherded all the way from the Blue Mountains, and even fonder of their little tagalong hobbit. He respected Bard and Dain. And though he and Thranduil had their differences, they recognized in one another a certain kind of kindred spirit. Even among the elves, there were few still living in Arda who could claim to have known Doriath before its ruin, or kept company with the likes of Queen Melian.

Furthermore, Gandalf wasn't one for standing on ceremony. He had been perfectly content, in centuries past, to keep bartenders in business and trade gossip with kings and gardeners alike. The Prancing Pony had long been one of his favorites, but there was a pub in the fifth circle of Minas Tirith that served extraordinarily good ale, and a distilled drink that the proud owner called _whiskey_. (He claimed that it would put a fine set of whiskers on the face of even a beardless youth. Gandalf was inclined to believe him.)

So he would have been happy to sit with the Company, telling outlandish tales and drinking the dubious alcohol that Nori brewed in his distillery. His absence had nothing to do with disdain, or even his satisfaction with a job well done.

He was simply tired. Exhausted.

Even with the aid of Lady Galadriel, and two of his fellow Istari besides, throwing down the Necromancer's fortress had been a grueling effort. The strength of that old citadel had been rooted deep in the ground, so tangled up in trees and stone and sickly air that the soul of the forest had been corrupted almost beyond redemption.

Like drawing poison from a wound, the Necromancer had made the healing almost as dangerous as the injury itself, and even Saruman had been wearied by the fight. It had almost killed Elrond—it had fallen to Lady Galadriel to save her son-in-law's life. And in the days after the battle, Gandalf found himself falling asleep whenever he sat down for a moment's rest, and losing his thoughts in the fog that had settled over his mind, like cobwebs over branches.

But he had grown stronger as the days passed, and such interesting things had been happening that his curiosity overcame his weariness. Just that morning, he had seen gangs of dwarves going down to Dale, carrying pickaxes and shovels and joking amongst themselves. Loads of hewn timber and building supplies were coming up from Laketown, alongside hundreds of refugees. Rumors were flying that Thorin had awakened at last, and was about to lead the dwarves into the mountain, or perhaps that he was about to take up arms and drive Bard from the encampment, and punish the hobbit burglar for his impudence.

Gandalf might have been worried by rumors like that, but he had spoken with Thranduil often in the days since the battle, and he knew that the situation was not nearly so dire. Still, Gandalf would be glad of the chance to see Thorin for himself, and perhaps give him a stern lecture on the care and keeping of hobbits.

It was early in the day when Gandalf roused himself for an amble around the encampment, his staff in hand and Glamdring at his side; no one had forgotten that there were still dangers lurking to the north, Bolg not least among them. He made first for Thorin's pavilion, but the guards outside shook their head when he made to enter.

"You don't want to be interrupting them, Master Tharkûn," one of the said. "Not when they're shouting and throwing things and carrying on so."

Upon reflection, Gandalf was inclined to agree. Neither Thranduil nor Thorin would ever be known as the most patient and understanding of kings, and their tempers were much alike in all the worst ways.

From inside the pavilion, Gandalf heard a very familiar voice howl "You left us to starve in the wastelands, and yet you speak to me of honor? My grandfather is deadbecause of you. My father was tortured to death under the boughs of your accursed forest!"

"If we are to speak of suffering," a smooth voice snapped back, "then shall I ask you how your kin acquitted themselves at Dagorlad, when my royal father was slain on the field and my brothers torn to pieces about his corpse? We died by the thousands on those plains. No one stirred themselves to save us, not even the kings of men or the Noldorin lords. And let us not speak of Thingol and his Lady Melian, and the rape of Doriath after the dwarves murdered our king."

Gandalf heard something crash against the side of the pavilion. It sounded heavy and expensive.

"Perhaps you're right," Gandalf said to the dwarven guards, all of whom looked profoundly uncomfortable. It was, he supposed, rather like listening to an argument through the keyhole of a door. In the vague distant way that he kept all of his memories of Valinor, he remembered hiding in Irmo's gardens and listening to Nienna and Námo while they debated with the rest of the Valar, sometimes caught up in bitter council for weeks at a time.

"It would be a shame to interrupt them, wouldn't it?" he said.

One of the guards nodded fervently. Gandalf left in search of less quarrelsome company. Perhaps Bard would be willing to settle down for a chat.

But Bard was working down in Dale, and when Gandalf looked down at the ruined city from the edge of camp, he saw that there would be no time for idle conservation. Dwarves and men alike were hard at work moving supplies and digging foundations. Others were pouring over maps, measuring distances with lengths of heavy cord, and pounding stakes into the ground.

One of the tiny figures detached itself from the flurry of activity and waved. Gandalf, leaning against his staff, waved back.

It was Legolas, of course. Only an elf's keen eyes could see across such a distance. Gandalf waited, watching the surveying with no little interest, while the elf ran lightfooted across the rocky desolation and up the sloping ground to meet him. "I see you've been at work," he observed when Legolas drew to a halt beside him and made his greetings. "Does your father know?"

Legolas smiled at that. He was brighter and more breathless than Gandalf had ever seen him, practically glowing with happiness. With his hair was pulled back, and a streak of dried mud on his cheek, he looked less like a Sindarin prince than one of Lenwë's sons, living wild along the banks of the Great River. Not for the first time, Gandalf wished that he had lived in Arda in such a merry time as that. What years those had been—long before Sauron crept back from Númenor and seduced even his enemies to his will!

"I am lucky to be well out of the succession," Legolas said, oblivious to Gandalf's regrets. "Now that Namirion has a son of his own, my father lets me do as I please." He glanced back at the piles of stone and lumber that would one day be the new city of Dale. "And there is much to do. But I am happy to see you again, Mithrandir. Are you well?"

"More or less," Gandalf said. "Unless your kin have found another fortress lurking under the boughs of the Greenwood, in which case I am reduced to weakness and senility, and cannot be relied upon for anything."

"Worry not. In his current temper, my father could break a dozen such strongholds without any force but his guards at his back. The dwarven king wears on his patience. Have you spoken to him of late?"

Gandalf chuckled. "No, but I've heard a great deal. If he and Thorin didn't spend so much time shouting at each other, I would think them in danger of becoming friends."

"You cannot think my father so weak as that," Legolas said. "He holds his grudges even dearer than his children, and cossets them much the same. It would be a grim misfortune indeed that would drive Thranduil into alliance with Thorin Oakenshield once more."

"Then I will not wish for either the misfortune or the friendship," Gandalf said. He didn't say it, but the shadow of Dol Goldur still stretched out long and menacing in his mind, casting all of the north into gloom. Misfortune might be closer and far darker than Legolas could imagine. Still, no good would come of meddling or rumormongering.

(At least, he amended, not yet. He would let the young ones have their happiness, for as long as it might last.)

"Come, Mithrandir, you look far too thoughtful. Let me take you down to Dale. It would gladden Bard to see you again, and it will give you happier things to think on."

"No, no—I am too old and wise to interrupt dwarves at work." Gandalf squinted his eyes, looking down at the busy, sprawling worksite. It reminded him of Beorn's orchards, and the beehives buzzing with the industry of their honest little laborers. He doubted that the dwarves would appreciate the comparison. "By the looks of it, you and Bard have recruited the better part of Dain's army to the task. How did you manage it, may I ask?"

"I shouldn't like to say," Legolas said, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice. "I took advantage of a father's good nature, you see. Bard was terribly angry when he found out."

Gandalf looked at him, unconvinced.

Legolas conceded the point with a laugh. "Terribly angry, but not for long. Sometimes I fear that Bard is growing too fond of me."

It was a simple statement, and made with no particular self-consciousness, but Gandalf raised his eyebrows when he heard it. The prince's affection for Girion had more than once led him close to disaster, if the gossip was to be believed. And Bard was so very much like his ancestors, in temper even more than looks. If anything were to happen—if Bard grew too fond, as Legolas had so lightly put it—it would come near to breaking Thranduil's heart. It was no secret that Legolas was the Elvenking's favorite child.

But that, too, was trouble for another day. "No, my friend. I will take my leave and let you get back to your work. I must find our Mister Baggins, and see what trouble he's gotten himself into since I saw him last."

"Send him my greetings," Legolas said. "And my thanks."

Gandalf didn't ask why. He had been there when Thranduil's soldiers carried Legolas off the battlefield, and he'd heard the story of Bilbo's improbable rescue soon after. Instead, he shooed Legolas back down to Dale, amused and worried in equal measure.

Sometimes, even elves were young enough that he felt more like a grandfather than one of the Istari. They were children, after all. Gandalf was charged with looking after them. All of them—Illúvatar's dear children, and Aulë's, and Yavanna's too, for he knew how well hobbits loved the land and growing things, and that alone would make them dear to Yavanna's heart.

He watched as Legolas returned to the grounds of Dale, catching Bard up in a quick embrace before rejoining one of the work crews. They were digging foundations for a grand manor house, by the looks of it. Gandalf wondered how long it would stand. He had seen the ruin of so many brave little towns, and this one would be no different.

He turned away and walked back towards the main camp, occasionally stopping to ask after Bilbo Baggins. No one knew where he was, though one of two of the dwarves offered thoroughly unhelpful guesses. He caught sight of Balin and made his way over to say hello, but Balin was in a quiet, heated argument with a short old dwarf wearing very well-polished armor. Gandalf lingered just around the corner from them, exercising his wizardly right to snoop on conversations that were none of his business.

"You think I enjoy this, cousin?" Balin sounded bitter. "Whatever you think of the hobbit, he's a dear little fellow and I'm fond of him. But I serve Thorin, and I must do the king's will as best I know it. At the moment, that means talking to you."

"I see your exile hasn't entirely ruined your sense of propriety," the other dwarf said. "But I wish you wouldn't scowl and take on so. It isn't seemly."

Gandalf peered around the corner. Balin, usually so kindly and mild-mannered, was looking at his cousin with the sort of dislike that he usually reserved for goblins, trolls, and anyone who threatened the line of Durin. "I'll keep it in mind, cousin Varin," he said stiffly. "If we could return to the matter of Dale—"

Varin. Gandalf took note of the name and ambled on.

He spotted Bofur and Bifur next—or rather, he caught a glimpse of Bifur, but was immediately distracted by the sight of Bofur launching himself through the air and knocking another dwarf to the ground with hawkish precision and a wild cry of triumph. "Tig!" he crowed, scrambling to his feet and darting out of reach while the other dwarf was still recovering from the shock.

Dwarves, Gandalf thought, with a huff of impatience that went unheard in the hullabaloo. Always fighting, and always a little too cheerful about it. It was a wonder of the world that any of them lived to adulthood, much less into old age; Gandalf felt tired just watching them.

"Excuse me," he said, elbowing his way through the crowded, muddy playing field, using his height and his wooden staff to nudge the brawling players out of his way. "Yes, yes, that was an excellent tackle, Bofur. Excuse me." At last he made it to the other side, battered but mostly unbruised, his cloak and boots caked with mud. He looked back just in time to see Bofur throw himself into the game once again, this time at a dwarf who was more than twice his weight and looked like he could pummel a stone wall to dust without any particular effort.

In the end, he only found Bilbo by tripping over him. It was an understandable mistake. Hobbits were easy enough to stumble over in the general way of things, and invisible hobbits were, in Gandalf's opinion, far more trouble than they were worth.

"Confound you, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said, when he looked down to see what he had run into, just in time to see Bilbo turn visible, pocketing his mysterious gold ring with one hand and rubbing his head with the other.

"You kicked me," said Bilbo.

Gandalf looked down at him severely. "And you tripped me. What do you think you're doing, wandering around with a ring of invisibility and making a nuisance of yourself?"

Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest and scowled up at Gandalf. "I'm hiding."

"Hiding from whom?"

"From everyone. From Thorin, and Thranduil, and Balin, and that game of Tig, and the assortment of sour-faced idiots that Dain calls his lords, and from Dain himself for that matter. I'm sick to death of this place, Gandalf. I want to go home!"

"Do you indeed," Gandalf said, mildly. "Thorin will be glad to see you gone, of course."

"He—I suppose so," Bilbo said. He dropped his gaze to the ground.

"And you're of no particular use to anyone. It's not as if we have any more need of a burglar, do we?"

"Yes, well," Bilbo said.

"And it's not as if you have friends to miss you, is it? Oh, for the love of—stop wallowing in self-pity and agreeing with every absurd thing I say!"

That startled the hobbit out of his little cloud of unhappiness.

"That was extraordinarily rude," he said, once he recovered his composure. "Carrying on like that. I might have believed you."

"And you, my dear Bilbo, are being extraordinarily foolish, if you think your presence here is worth so little. I've come to the conclusion that hobbits in general are quite remarkable. You are no exception."

"Well, I don't feel remarkable. And you were right, weren't you? At least about Thorin."

He did look very ordinary, standing there with his shoulders slumped and all of his borrowed finery long since discarded. No mithril shirts for Bilbo Baggins, not anymore—after all, he wasn't a soldier, or a lord, or indeed even a burglar.

It was the same old trouble all over again. Gandalf sternly reminded himself to be patient with Bilbo and Thorin both. They had settled their differences before, and they would do it again without a wizard's meddling. "Sometimes even the most worthwhile folk think themselves to be silly and useless," he said. "Even I feel silly and useless on occasion, though I assure you that I'm neither."

"Certainly not," Bilbo said. "You make excellent fireworks."

Gandalf didn't rise to the bait. "So I do. While you are uncommonly good at talking to proud, stubborn kings, and reminding them that they ought to be decent to one another. It may be thankless work," he added, when Bilbo looked unconvinced, "but you are doing more good than you realize."

"I suppose I should take your word for it," Bilbo said with a sigh. "And go to Council. We've a meeting at midday, and I think that we're about to get our finances settled."

"Oh?"

"You may look as skeptical as you like. But there are more important things in this world than gold and jewels, I'll have you know."

"So I've heard," Gandalf said. He considerately didn't mention that barely a fortnight ago the dwarves had almost gone to war over treasure. "Off you go, then. I won't keep you when you've duties to attend. And no more of this invisibility nonsense! Powerful rings are not trinkets, to be so idly used."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Bilbo sharply. "There's no harm in it, provided I watch where I'm going."

Gandalf harrumphed, but he let the matter go. One day, when things were settled and he could indulge his curiosity, he might take a closer look at that plain old ring. If the weapons of ancient lords could find their way to a troll hoard along the Great East Road, there was no knowing what strange relics might have been lurking in the mountains under Goblintown.

Perhaps the ring was nothing but a useful trifle, or perhaps it too had once belonged to some fallen king. One way or another, Saruman would certainly know. He was a master in such history. Besides, there was something familiar in the craftsmanship, some undefinable presence that slumbered just beyond Gandalf's sight or understanding.

Could it be—of course!

Gandalf nearly crowed in triumph. He had it. How could he have been so blind?

It was certainly Fëanor's work, or perhaps it had been crafted by one of his sons. It had that same quiet power, and the same understated artistry. In the absence of a maker's mark there was all the matchless arrogance of Fëanor son of Finwë, who knew that no one could ever mistake his creations for the work of a lesser smith.

Gandalf resumed his wanderings as Bilbo headed off to his Council, feeling no little satisfaction. He wouldn't need to go to Saruman for help, after all.

He spent the next few hours poking around the camp, enjoying the faint touch of sunshine and occasionally pausing to talk with one of the dwarves. He had a friendly conversation with Bombur, who was busy looking over their modest inventory of foodstuffs, and kept on asking Ori to check and recheck the totals, as if a few hundredweights of dried meat and flour might appear by some magic of arithmetic. Some time later he found Glóin talking to the camp cobbler, and listened patiently while Glóin ranted to him about the shameful way that humans neglected their children. But he was feeling dim and tired by then, leaning more and more heavily on his staff to keep standing upright. He made his way back to his quiet refuge, more or less abandoned now that the elven army had returned to Mirkwood, and settled down for an afternoon doze.

He was just drifting off, his pipe in his mouth and legs stretched out in front of him, when Bilbo Baggins came running pell-mell towards him.

"What on earth is the matter?" Gandalf asked, crossly. "Surely it can wait."

"It's Kili," Bilbo gasped, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. "We were in Council, but something happened—Fili said to hurry, he said to fetch a healer."

Gandalf was already on his feet and striding away, Bilbo trailing along behind him. As they drew closer to the dwarven side of the camp, he could hear a cacophony of shouts and cries. A few voices stood distinct above the rest. Fili, loud and strident, almost hysterical. Thorin, snapping orders and telling the others to stand back. Thranduil, demanding to be let inside the tent, to see to the prince.

When Gandalf rounded the corner and finally laid eyes on the scene, he was immediately mobbed with a dozen dwarves all asking him to do something—anything. Gandalf ignored them all. There were only two people who might have any useful information for him.

"Thranduil," he said. "Speak to me, friend."

The king spared a last sneer for Thorin and turned to face the wizard. "The boy is coming to consciousness at last," he said. "His brother says that he's been stirring for days now, but fitfully at best. Now he's speaking nonsense, and his limbs are seizing. But he will not respond to word or touch. It could be that his mind is gone, and his body is acting on animal instinct."

"He's not," Fili snarled. He was fighting to be let back into the tent where the dwarven healers were attending to Kili, struggling viciously against his captors. Dwalin and Glóin together could barely restrain him. "His mind isn't gone. He's _here_. He just can't wake up. Let me go, let me see to him—"

Thranduil ignored him, still speaking urgently to Gandalf. "I must see to the child myself," he said. "He will do himself harm, or the healers will kill him and call it mercy."

"If there is no hope," Gandalf said, quietly, hating the very thought of it, "then perhaps it would be for the best."

"_If _there is no hope. I am not convinced of that. Prince Fili may be crazed with grief, but if he is not, then we must do as he says. He speaks for his brother."

"Gandalf, you could do something," Bilbo said, suddenly. "You woke Thorin after he was knocked unconscious. After the eagles rescued us, you said something—a spell, or a prayer—and he opened his eyes, just like that."

Gandalf shook his head. "I've already tried, I'm afraid. It was only hours after the battle. Kili didn't stir."

"But it's different now, isn't it? He might be better. Closer to us."

Fili stilled in Dwalin's arms. "Can you, Gandalf? Can you wake him?"

"No," he said, firmly. "And I am sorry for it." But now Thorin was looking at him too, and Dwalin, and all the rest, as if he was some worker of great magic, or even Mandos himself, who could bring even the dead back to life.

But he was only Gandalf the Grey, not strongest even among the Istari. He was weak and tired, and some things were too broken for even wizards to fix.

"Please," Fili said, desperately. "Kili's only a boy. He's barely of age. He deserves so much better than this. If you need a life to trade, you can have mine. But let my brother live."

"I will not work magic like that." Gandalf ignored the whispering temptation, the seductive voice that said _you can, though, you can_. _You could be great, Olórin. Stronger even than Saruman—as strong as your brother who ruled in Mordor. You too carry a ring of power. _

He ignored the voice, but it pressed on, as if the Necromancer's words still lingered in the wind, as if Sauron himself were standing beside him, to whisper in his ear.

_Would it be so wrong to let one child live, when the other wishes to sacrifice his own? You would be doing them a kindness. A mercy. Did not Nienna teach you pity? Pity these children now, and do as they plead. _

"Please," Bilbo said, one hand fiddling anxiously with something in his pocket. His ring. He was nervous. Terrified, even, but not himself. He kept casting glances at Fili, and back up at Gandalf. "Please do something, Gandalf."

_Olórin, wisest of my brothers, be wise now. Be merciful. A life for a life, is that not a fair exchange? It would be so easy. I would give you the strength you lack. Olórin!_

"Yes," Gandalf said aloud, as if another power was speaking through him, using his voice. "Yes, Fili. I will do what I can."

Fili sagged with relief. Dwalin took his weight, holding him upright. "Steady, prince," he said, but he was looking at Gandalf with sudden suspicion.

Thorin was not so quiet in his doubts. "What do you mean to do?" he demanded, standing in front of Gandalf. It was nonsense to think that he could bar the wizard from doing as he liked. Even strong and unwounded, Thorin was not his match in battle. But still he stood in front of the tent, guarding Kili with his body and the sheer stubbornness of his will. "You are not yourself, Gandalf."

Gandalf ignored him. He had been afraid, he remembered. Once, a long time ago. He had been afraid of death, and of the Enemy, and of faltering in his duty. He wondered at his own weakness—to be frightened of his own shadow! But now he was strong, and his mind was afire with the knowledge of it. It burned away all shadows. He had nothing to fear.

Narya glowed on his finger, scorching like pale fire. But he did not feel it.

He brushed Thorin aside, and stepped into the tent.

_A life for a life_.

He dismissed the dwarven healers with a wave of his hand, a casual word. They knew his presence, and feared him even if they did now know why. They obeyed. He looked down at Kili, the poor dear child—at his pale skin, so fragile and scarred, at the dark lashes that fluttered as he tossed and turned, caught up in some unseen nightmare.

Gandalf stood beside him, watching him thoughtfully. He did not know how to summon the spirits of the dead, or how to trade one for the soul of one still living. But he had felt the spells the Necromancer had used, in the tombs where Angmar had been buried. It would not be difficult to recreate them, not with this new power burning through his veins. Would it be easier because the two were brothers? He supposed so.

He closed his eyes and began the chant. But soon he stopped, frowning. He had always used Quenya for his spells, even the little ones, like lighting his fireworks. _Why had he ever bothered with those? There were far more interesting things to be done with black powder._

Quenya was the language of Valinor, and it had always suited him well. But it was not enough. It was too soft, too gentle, for the work he had to do now. He wondered for a moment what words to use, but the answer came to him quickly enough. When he spoke again, he was surprised at how easily the new tongue came to him.

He had never known he was so fluent in the Black Speech.

_See how simple it can be, Olórin? You could do so much good, if only you gave yourself leave. There's nothing to be afraid of_.

Outside, the wind was picking up. Fili shuddered, though Dwalin was a strong, warm presence behind him, still holding him close.

"Are you well?" Thorin asked him, torn between his desire to keep an eye on the wizard and his need to look after his heir. "Fili?"

"It's nothing, uncle," Fili said, letting his eyes drift shut. "I'm just a little tired. And it's so very cold."

Gandalf heard none of this. For him, there was nothing but the chanted words and the fire of his own newfound strength, nothing but the spirits he was speaking to, speaking so friendly and kind. His was the voice of healer. Of course it was; he only wanted to help. It was an act of mercy he was doing.

There was another voice, too. A different voice. But Gandalf dismissed it.

It persisted. Gandalf quieted it again, more forcefully this time, with a spell that should have silenced the meddler's voice forever. Still, it kept talking, chattering, obnoxiously _there_ despite his attempts to stop it.

Eventually, his old curiosity got the better of him. Gandalf spared a second to listen to what the voice was saying.

"—and I'm sure you're not doing anything wrong, because you're Gandalf and you always get us out of scrapes. You're the only one of the Big Folk that's even taken an honest interest in the Shire, did you know that? You were so kind to my mother, and you made fireworks for the Old Took's birthday, and I was only a little lad but I remember it like it was yesterday—"

It was Bilbo. Gandalf felt a brief spark of satisfaction at his words. _See? Fireworks aren't pointless at all. And black powder can be dangerous. Better to use it at birthday parties than on the battlefield. _

"—and I don't mean to be rude, but you're not listening and something's wrong with Fili, and I don't know what you're doing but it's making me so terribly afraid—"

Suddenly, he remembered what he'd said to Lady Galadriel, months ago in Rivendell. _Perhaps it is because I am afraid, and he gives me courage_.

"—so if you could just say something, Gandalf, something that wasn't that wretched chanting, I promise I'll leave. But until then, I'm going to stay right here, and I'm going to keep bothering you. So—so there!"

Gandalf blinked, and straightened up.

How very odd he felt! His throat was dry and scratchy, and his head ached, and everything felt so very dim and muzzy. Cobwebs, he thought, for no apparent reason. Cobwebs in my mind.

"I'm sorry, my dear Bilbo," he said. "I'm feeling rather faint. I was trying to wake Kili, wasn't I?"

"I—I think so," said Bilbo, a little uncertain. He was flexing his fingers, as if he had been holding something very tightly in his hand, and his joints were protesting the force of his grip. "You were saying something in a strange language."

"Quenya," Gandalf said, automatically. There was a thought on the edge of his consciousness, just out of his reach. He went looking for it, but it fluttered away. Well, it couldn't have been so very important; it would come back to him sooner or later. "It's the language of the Valar, and of the high elves that still dwell in Valinor. A very holy tongue."

"Oh. I see." Bilbo said nothing more, but he still looked puzzled.

Gandalf returned to the task at hand. He murmured a few quiet words, drawing his hand across Kili's face. Nothing. Kili had gone still and quiet again, though the tangled blankets and the blood oozing from his reopened wounds were proof of his violent struggles.

He didn't opened his eyes, or speak.

"I'm sorry," Gandalf said. "It was as I feared. He's too far gone to be reached, at least by any skill that I possess."

It would ruin Thorin, to lose his youngest heir. And it would kill Fili as surely as any mortal wound. For a moment, Gandalf was tempted to try again, this time with a stronger sort of magic. He thought for a moment about Fili's request, his offer to trade a life for a life, but of course that was ridiculous. That was necromancy, and Gandalf could not bring himself to venture down that road. Why, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't know where to start. And that was just as it should be.

_Olórin!_

Gandalf was busy talking to Bilbo. He did not hear the voice. He had never heard it, at least not that he could recall.

Bilbo didn't hear it either. He swallowed hard. "I guess that's it, then."

And then, even as they turned to leave, Kili stirred. It was not the uncontrollable seizing that had so terrified his brother, or the small twitching of animal instinct. It was slow and deliberate.

He opened his eyes.

"Fili," he said, though the name was nothing more than a tiny exhaled breath. "Fili?"

Gandalf raised his voice. "Fili," he said, shakily. "Your brother is asking for you."

There was the sound of a struggle, a shout—a string of curses. Fili broke free from Dwalin's hold and was inside the tent before anyone could even think about stopping him.

Gandalf stepped back to give the children some privacy. He was still unsteady on his feet, though he didn't understand why. Perhaps his morning walk around the camp had tired him more than he realized.

Thorin appeared, too, but he hesitated for a moment. "May I?" he asked. "I don't want to disturb him."

Gandalf was too lost in thought to answer. He heard Bilbo's quiet reply: "I think he'll be glad to see you, your majesty. But maybe we should keep everyone else out, just for now."

Dwalin heard and obeyed, barring the entrance from any curious onlookers or well-wishers. "Go on, lads," he said to the assembled dwarves. "Get about your work. You'll be able to gawk at the princes soon enough. In the meantime, leave 'em be."

After a few small sips of water and a moment to rest, Kili was almost coherent again. But he was confused, and Fili had to tell him that the battle had been won a dozen times before it finally seemed to sink in. Gandalf kept an eye on him, wary lest he should lose control or lash out again.

He didn't. But eventually he noticed that Fili kept glancing at his right side, compulsively: little darting glances in between reassuring words. And so Kili looked, too.

"Oh," he said, blankly.

He reached over to touch the place where his arm should have been, as if his eyes were deceiving him and he would surely feel flesh and bone, reassuringly solid, beneath his fingers.

He felt only the rough old cotton of the bed sheets, and his lips parted in shock.

"My arm," he said. "My—my arm. It's gone. How am I going to shoot? How am I going to work in a forge?"

"Don't worry," Fili said, hurriedly. "We've home in Erebor now, like uncle always wanted. We're princes. You won't have to fight anymore, or earn your keep. You don't have to worry about anything, I promise. I'll look after you."

"But I don't want to be looked after. I don't. I want to fight, to guard your back—"

"You will!" Fili's voice cracked. "Look at me, Kili, please."

Kili tore his gaze away from the ruin of his arm. He was breathing fast and shallow. "I don't. I can't—"

"You can. I promise. We'll do it together, just like always. Nothing we can't do when we're together, isn't that what mother always said?"

Kili shook his head. "Don't think this is what she meant."

Fili knelt beside him, as close as he could, as if he could prove Kili wrong by touch alone when words had failed. "Kili, I swear. You're not healed, not yet, but you're going to get better. We'll go out to battle again, and you'll always have my back. You've just—you've got to trust me. Please?"

Kili looked up at him, eyes wide with pain and fear.

"I trust you," he whispered. "Always trust you, brother."

He reached out with his one good hand, and Fili took it.

Gandalf left. He wasn't needed, and this was no place for an outsider. Thorin and Fili would look after their kin, and Bilbo would take care of the rest of the dwarves while the royal family was occupied.

Poor child, he thought. But Kili had his family to look after him, and to see him through the wretched months to come. It was a better fate than Gandalf had dared to dream of. More than once he had looked at Thorin's young nephews and felt only sadness, though he didn't know why. Even as they laughed and sang and made mischief, he had grieved for them. He had known that they would not live to see their home restored.

But the battle was won, and still they lived; even wizards, it seemed, were sometimes proven wrong.

Gandalf was glad of it.

"Are you well?" Thranduil asked. The Elvenking had been waiting outside the tent, stubbornly refusing to leave no matter how Dwalin glared. "You seem—unsettled."

"Do I?" Gandalf said, absently. He still feared he might be forgetting something, but he was too tired to chase after the thought. "Perhaps. Dol Goldur left me worn and tired, and my mind is ill at ease. But no matter. We must speak of other things. You will be leaving soon, now that Thorin is up and about."

"Yes," said Thranduil, his head tilted curiously as he looked at Gandalf. "My work here is all but done, and Tauriel has sent word that I am needed in my own kingdom. Give me a few hours yet to tend my patient, and then we may talk. But I still think you are not entirely yourself, Mithrandir."

Gandalf waved the concern away. "It is only a moment of weakness," he said. "I am tired. It will pass."

Indeed, the fresh air did him good. The further he walked, the better he felt, and soon he wasn't even leaning on his staff for support.

It was just as he'd told Thranduil: nothing more than a passing thing.

Sooner rather than later, Kili fell asleep. Fili watched him anxiously, but it was nothing more than commonplace exhaustion, and he could be awakened by a shake of his shoulder. "Go away," he mumbled, when Fili tried it. "I'm tired."

Fili hovered, uncertain. "I don't want to leave him," he said. "I want to be here when he wakes up. He might be scared, or confused. I don't think he's remembering things very well."

Thorin, who had exchanged only a few brief words with Kili before the boy's eyes had fluttered shut, was equally reluctant to leave. But he wouldn't be able to stay standing for much longer. Thranduil had warned him again not to stir himself from bed, and once again Thorin had ignored him. He had rushed headlong out of the pavilion the moment he'd heard that something was wrong with Kili, and he had spent the last hour in a haze of agony.

"Give him time," he told Fili. "And be patient, as I know you are. Dwalin will keep watch outside, along with the other guards. Keep your brother company by taking a few hours of rest yourself."

Fili protested, but Thorin would not be swayed. "You're worn down to the bone," he said. "And you'll be no good for your brother if you don't get a full night of sleep and one or two proper meals."

"It's not that easy." Fili tugged at his simple braid, nervously. "I'm not hungry. And what if something happens while I sleep?"

Thorin sighed. "One foot in front of the other, lad. Sleep. Stay close to Kili, if it makes you feel better. And then in the morning, we can have breakfast together. The three of us, just like we used to. Good enough?"

Fili nodded, reluctant but always obedient. "Yes, uncle."

Thorin lingered for a moment longer, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Kili's chest. He was alive. He would never be the same, but he was still Kili, still the boy who had stood over his uncle's body and dared Azog to come closer.

"I'll look after him," Fili promised, as if it had ever been a question.

Thorin left. He knew that it wasn't enough, but he could do no better. His nephews had all the love he could give them, and all the strength he knew how to lend.

_Mahal, do better for them than I can. Take care of them when I cannot._

It was only late afternoon, and the sunlight was warm on his face. Bilbo was lingering outside, just as anxious as Fili, but likely for different reasons.

"Let me help you," he said. "Just for a moment. You don't have to forgive me. I won't even mention it again, only let me help."

Thorin didn't respond. He stood just outside the tent, grimly contemplating the short walk to his pavilion. It might as well have been a hundred miles, in his current state. He would never make it without someone to lean on.

Dwalin was still standing guard, and he straightened when Thorin glanced his way. "I'll keep you company," he offered. "If you'd like."

"No," Thorin said. "I promised Fili that you would stay close." He didn't miss the quick glance that Dwalin and Bilbo exchanged. It was enough to make him sigh and give up the fight entirely, at least for the moment.

"Come along, then," he said to Bilbo, finally acknowledging his presence. "It seems that everyone in this camp is determined that we should be friends, at least everyone that I regard with any favor. You may see me to my pavilion, so long as you promise to keep quiet."

"I promise," Bilbo said. And true to his word, he said nothing as they made their slow way back, Thorin leaning more heavily on Bilbo with every step. He was not a light burden, particularly not for a hobbit, but Bilbo never complained.

"Thank you," Thorin said, gruffly, when they arrived at last.

Bilbo's eyes widened, and his lips twitched into a tentative smile. "You're welcome," he said. "I suppose I'll see you soon?"

"It seems I cannot escape it," Thorin said, and even to himself he sounded resigned.

Bilbo took his leave.

Thorin squared his shoulders, and entered the pavilion. He knew precisely what was waiting for him, and he was right. There was Thranduil, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his blue eyes sharp.

"_Now_ will you let me tend your wounds, O King?" he asked. "Or must we have another round of quarreling before you condescend to let me help you?"

Thorin sat down on the bed without a word of protest, and began the painful process of taking off his tunic. Lifting his arms over his head was such a dizzying ordeal that he almost passed out then and there, but Thranduil appeared by his side to steady him. Thorin shrugged away from the touch, but Thranduil was insistent.

"You cannot always be strong," he said. He neatly folded up Thorin's tunic and set it aside, examining the bloodstained bandages underneath with a critical eye. "There is no shame in it. Sometimes, when others are willing to lend you their own strength, you must accept it."

"Why do we always talk about the hobbit?" Thorin was weary down to the bone, so tired that every breath was a struggle. He kept breathing anyway.

Thranduil knelt beside him and began cleaning his wounds, working with a quick, distant touch. His hands were cool against the furnace of Thorin's chest. "I ask myself the same question."

"Sometimes I think he's the strongest of all of us," Thorin said, talking to distract himself from the discomfort. He almost cursed when he realized that he had said it aloud, but if Thranduil was surprised he didn't show it.

"Maybe he is, in his own way. You and I were made for war. It was in our blood and our cradles. But your halfling was born in a kindly land, and he isn't the child of kings." Thranduil soaked a cloth in a clear liquid that burned and stung when he pressed it into Thorin's raw skin. Thorin gasped, a deep indrawn breath that hissed through his clenched teeth. "Don't whine," he said, as if Thorin was doing anything of the sort. "And hold still!"

"If I move, Elvenking, I promise that you'll know it," Thorin said darkly.

"Striking a healer is poor form."

"You're not a healer. You're my own personal bane, crawled up from the Void to torment me."

Thranduil pressed the soaked cloth to Thorin's chest again, keeping contact for longer than strictly necessary. Thorin flinched, biting his lip hard to keep from making a sound. "I think you're confusing me with another old enemy," said Thranduil. "Perhaps your wits are addled. Did you take a knock to the head, like your halfling?"

Thorin took a few deep, ragged breathing, struggling with the pain. "How did it happen?" he asked, when he regained his voice. "I remember that he was hurt, but little more."

"He hit his head. There was a great deal of blood, but no cracks in his skull or swelling in his brain. He suffered only a slight loss of memory, which" —his lips pursed— "he may recover, in time."

"His memory?" Thorin said, alarmed. "What—does he not—"

"You needn't fret. It would take more than a blow to the head to forget you, Thorin Oakenshield, else I might dash myself against a rock and try it for myself. And I treated his wounds personally, though one of your Company looked ready to fight me for the honor."

"Oín," said Thorin. Suddenly he felt enormously fond of the superstitious old healer.

Thranduil hummed noncommittally, apparently disinterested in the names of Thorin's subjects. "If you were so concerned about the halfling's injuries, you might have asked him yourself. He stayed with you the night of the battle, as I recall. Were you too busy with kingly affairs to speak of anything else?"

"I was busy dying," Thorin gritted out. It was just like the Elvenking to stick his pretty blond head in and interrupt his enemy's death. "But if he is slow to heal, I expect you're to blame for it. You're the one that's been running him ragged with petty work—fetching your meals and letters, as if you haven't got servants of your own."

"Has someone been telling tales? How shocking. Was it the tattooed brute, or the fretting little child with the sweater and scarf?"

"That's no concern of yours."

Thranduil fetched a clean set of bandages and motioned for Thorin to sit up. He bit his lip and obeyed, ignoring the spike of discomfort that the movement caused, and Thranduil began rewrapping his chest. Thorin loathed the bandages, but they helped with the discomfort, and he knew that they kept his ribs from shifting out of place when he moved.

"The halfling is stubborn," Thranduil said as he worked. "I would rather he got more rest. He hasn't been eating well, and he sleeps only infrequently. But that's no fault of mine."

"Why isn't he sleeping?"

"Have you forgotten your first battle? The halfling was an innocent, untouched by violence or cruelty, before you stole him away to fight in your wars."

"He's having nightmares." Thorin ignored the accusation that he had compelled Bilbo to do anything again his will. Bilbo was no child, and Thorin had realized in the early days of their quest that bossing a hobbit into obedience was like dragging a recalcitrant cow through mud. They simply dug their feet in and refused to move.

Thranduil looked pityingly at him, like a parent might look at an uncommonly slow child. "Of course he is. I suppose you think less of him for it."

Thorin said nothing. But his expression must have given something away, because Thranduil made a soft noise of understanding, a flicker of sympathy crossing his pale, unearthly face. Of course Thorin wouldn't think less of Bilbo for waking unsettled in the night, or for seeing wretched things when he closed his eyes. Thorin had dreamt of the gates of Moria for years.

Thranduil finished his work at last, and let Thorin collapse back against his makeshift bed.

"You will be glad to know that your misadventures have done you no lasting harm," he said. "Though I would not recommend you try your luck a third time. Your bones are not made of metal, to be pieced back together with fire and forge. You must be patient."

There was an odd sort of finality in the words.

Thorin watched the Elvenking as he got up and made to leave. He packed away his supplies, as usual, but then he began gathering up odds and ends: a few scattered sheets of parchment, a sheathed dagger, a pretty mithril pendant on a thin silver chain. It was almost as if—

Oh. "You're leaving. Going back to Mirkwood."

Thranduil met his eyes, his mouth curving into a small, sardonic smile. "You may rejoice as you please, but don't overindulge. I've spent too long saving your life to let you waste it on idle recklessness."

"If you're expecting thanks, you'll get none from me," Thorin said. "You've owed my family since the day you abandoned us to a dragon."

Thranduil looked around one last time, his eyes falling briefly on the Arkenstone, still sitting at Thorin's bedside. "You're luckier than you deserve, Thorin son of Thráin. See that you remember it."

"Goodbye and good riddance—you may consider your debt repaid, if you like."

Thranduil was already gone, but Thorin heard his soft, mocking voice drifting back. "I healed you under sufferance, but it was not for your sake. Farewell!"

Thorin took a moment to enjoy his newfound peace. Outside there was clamor and conversation, and he thought he could hear Thranduil's voice in the distance, snapping orders to one of his guards. But all was quiet in the pavilion, save for the sound of his breathing and the rustling of the wind.

He picked up the Arkenstone, weighing it in his hands. It was such a little thing, barely the size of his calloused palm, glowing softly in the dim light. No star in the sky could compare; no other treasure in Erebor had been valued so much. Thrór would have died for it. Would he have been proud to know that his grandson had been willing to do the same?

Silence. If the old king's spirit still lingered in the halls of the mountain, it didn't deign to speak to him. And if there was anything of the kingdom Thorin had once loved hidden behind the weathered rock, it was just as far away from him as ever. Thorin set the Arkenstone aside, carefully, and closed his eyes to the emptiness that surrounded him.

It shouldn't have been so hard to fall asleep. Thorin was used to being alone, and solitude had never troubled him. He reminded himself of that as lay awake, his chest aching with every shallow breath, the Arkenstone shining soft and white in the darkness.

* * *

Bilbo appeared several hours later, quite literally out of thin air. Thorin, who was still lying awake and wondering vaguely how Kili was doing, would have been more surprised if he hadn't heard the hobbit rustling around in the corner of the pavilion for several minutes, presumably gathering his own belongings.

"Oh, drat it!" Bilbo whispered, as he suddenly became visible. His ring had apparently fallen off his finger. It rolled across the bumpy ground and settled with a small _thunk_ only a few inches away from Thorin's hand.

Thorin picked it up before Bilbo could reach it. "What are you doing here?" he asked, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger. Bilbo reached for it, scowling; Thorin drew back.

"I just came to get some of my things," Bilbo said, glancing from the ring to Thorin's dimly-lit face, and back again. "It's cold out, so I thought I might find a blanket. Give that back, why don't you?"

Thorin scrutinized the thing, admiring its workmanship. This was not ordinary gold, though most eyes would be fooled by its pretty, plain style. Maybe he should take it for himself. A ring of invisibility could be useful.

"If you take my ring," Bilbo said, "after calling me a thief and a traitor for stealing your precious Arkenstone, I am going to be extremely irritated with you."

Thorin raised his eyebrows and handed the ring back. He would rather have kept it. But Bilbo would complain endlessly if he did, and do his best to make Thorin's life a misery. And after all, he admitted to himself, the hobbit did have a point.

Bilbo snatched it away from him and shoved it into his pockets. "Thank you."

"It's a trifle," Thorin said.

"Yes, but it's my trifle, and I quite like it." He returned to his corner, and began gathering up his things: a ragged old blanket, the threadbare pack that he had carried with him since before Mirkwood, his little sword. It was a stark contrast to the fine trinkets that Thranduil had kept with him, but Thorin had grown accustomed to the clutter. He realized belatedly that Bilbo must have been sleeping in the pavilion in the aftermath of the battle, and only left after Thorin regained consciousness.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

Bilbo shrugged. "Haven't the faintest. I've spent the last few nights with Fili and Kili, but I don't want to bother them. I won't bother you again, either, if that's what you're worried about."

It wasn't. Thorin hesitated, his pride warring with his inborn desire to protect. He looked after his people. Isn't that was a king was supposed to do?

"You can stay here."

Bilbo actually laughed. It was a small, unhappy sound. He didn't stop packing.

It occurred to Thorin for the first time that Bilbo could vanish, just like that. Not only by wearing that ring. He could pack his belongings and go down to Dale, or to Mirkwood, or back across the mountains to his little home in the Shire. His contract had been fulfilled, and Thorin was alive to speak for himself. There was nothing more to keep him.

Thorin should have been pleased by the realization. After all, Bilbo was an enormous amount of trouble. And yet—

"Stay," he said again. "The nights are cold here."

"I hadn't noticed," Bilbo said, stuffing the tattered remains of his spare shirt in the pack.

"Don't be willful, halfling. I'm doing you a kindness."

Bilbo's lips moved soundlessly for several moments. "I'm sorry," he managed at last. "Did you just tell me not to be willful? You—you, Thorin Oakenshield—are telling this to me?"

Thorin, who had spent years navigating the stormy waters of sister's temperament, and had endured the tantrums of his youngest nephew since Kili was a yowling babe in the cradle, was not oblivious to the sudden tension in the air. But he had spent the last days fighting with the Elvenking, and the last century of his life fighting everything else. He was sick of it.

And for the first time in almost a hundred years, he stopped fighting back.

"I am," he said, meeting Bilbo's incredulous stare as best he could in the shadows. "And now I'm asking you. Stay. Please."

Bilbo let his pack drop to the floor, and he kicked it into the corner with his foot. But he didn't sit back down, and he didn't come any closer to Thorin. "You can't keep doing this to me. I'm not a piece of treasure, to be dusted off when you want me and tossed aside when you haven't any interest."

"I trusted you to carry out my will after I was dead." Thorin struggled to keep his voice even. "You allied yourself with my enemies instead."

"They're not your enemies," Bilbo said. "You don't understand. I know you think you do, but you don't. How it's been here since the battle, and how we've been looking after each other—you could do so much good, Thorin, if only you let yourself."

Haven't I done enough? Thorin wanted to demand. Haven't I suffered enough to satisfy you? Perhaps he should have died on the battlefield, and left the ruling to someone else. Thorin knew now that he wasn't a good king. And he didn't know how to become one.

He wished for his grandfather as he hadn't in years, because Thrór had been a good king once. Thorin clung to that, to his faded childhood memories of hiding behind the throne when his father was looking for him, and the way that Thor had commanded the eyes of his Council and his kingdom, and the easy confidence of his steps. Thorin had only been a little boy, running to keep up with the king's great strides. Even then he had known that his grandfather was a strong lord.

Thrór had always known what to do—until, one day, he hadn't. That was the way Thorin remembered it. And now Thorin didn't know what to do, either.

Bilbo was a dim shape in the moonlight, a shadow, a soft voice. "You have soldiers who would die for you, friends who would do your bidding with all the love they have. You led them home to the mountain. Now they're just sitting on the threshold, waiting for you. I don't understand."

Thorin reached out a hand, and then let it drop. Pointless. Bilbo couldn't see him in the darkness.

"Neither do I," he said.

But perhaps Bilbo had seen him after all, because the hobbit took a few soft steps towards him, and then settled down at his side. It was only right for Thorin to put an arm around his shoulders, to draw him closer. His hand brushed against the bare skin of Bilbo's neck, just beneath his tangled curls, and in that simple touch he felt something break inside of him. It hurt like a branding, like a mace buried inside his chest. It hurt like dragonfire.

He didn't have the words for it. He knew that Bilbo didn't understand, but there was nothing to be done about that. "I don't know what to do," he said, helplessly. "There's no one else."

"I'm here," Bilbo said. "I won't leave until you tell me to. Maybe not even then."

Thorin closed his eyes, struggled to compose himself. One foot in front of the other. There would be time tomorrow, and the day after, to talk about treaties and the Council, and their dwindling stores of food, and what precisely a king's speaker had the right to do. There would be time for arguments, and perhaps for making amends.

"If you are to stay," he said, "you must learn to do I as say. You may argue with me in private as you like, but a king cannot be shamed in front of his subjects. Can you manage that?"

"I think so," Bilbo said, voice muffled. He curled up at Thorin's side, a soft warm weight pressed against the rough cotton of Thorin's shirt. Even that gentle touch hurt, but Thorin could bear it. "Provided you keep two things in mind."

"Oh?"

"I still haven't forgotten that you almost tossed me off the battlements. And I'm perfectly capable of calling you an idiot, even if I have to wait until we're alone to do it."

Thorin floundered for a moment. "I wonder that you can bear to be around me," he said. "It would do no good to apologize, but—"

"Oh, please do apologize. Maybe it will do some good after all. You won't know until you try."

Thorin wasn't in the humor for teasing, so he fell back on the formalities that he had learned as a child. "As you wish. Mister Baggins, I've done you a great disservice. And I ask your forgiveness for it. For—"

"Holding me over a battlement," Bilbo prompted.

Thorin struggled between rage and embarrassment, and settled on a weary resignation. "For holding you over a battlement," he said. "And for banishing you on pain of death. For not honoring the strict terms of your contract."

"Carry on," said Bilbo, sounding entirely too cheerful. "For saying that I looked like a grocer—"

"I'm not apologizing for telling the truth."

"You told the truth rudely."

"I regret the wound to your delicate sensibilities," he said, stiffly.

Bilbo was so close that when he laughed, quiet but sincere, Thorin could feel his shoulders shake. "No, you don't."

"You accept my apologies, then?"

"Why—yes," Bilbo said, sobering a little. "I do. You weren't quite yourself, you know. But I'll be much less forgiving the second time around. In the future, whenever you feel inclined to throw me down a mountain, perhaps we might discuss the matter first?"

It was quite possibly the most damning condemnation Thorin could have imagined. The fact that Bilbo meant well by it, and did not intend for the gentle sarcasm to sting, only made it worse.

Thorin knew the truth, though he would never speak of it.

The Arkenstone hadn't driven him mad, or poisoned his mind, or seduced him to cruelty and malice. He had never felt stronger than when he'd sworn vengeance on those who had laid siege to his mountain, or when he'd threatened death to the inoffensive little hobbit who had travelled so far with him, and through so many dangers.

"_Kili_," he had said, "_if you ever see Bilbo Baggins again, you will shoot him. Is that understood?_"

And Kili had nodded, dumbly, speechless with shock. He wouldn't have obeyed, of course. Thorin knew that now. At the time, the thought hadn't even occurred to him. Kili was loyal, so he would follow his king's orders; he had thought no more of it.

_You weren't quite yourself. _But he had been. That was the worst of it.

"I should beg your forgiveness, too," Bilbo said. "While we're both so quiet and peaceable. You know, I think this is the longest proper conversation we've ever had?"

Thorin stayed silent, but Bilbo was talking in a sleepy, drifting way, too tired to pay much attention to what Thorin wasn't saying. "I'm sorry for stealing your Arkenstone, or at least I'm sorry that it made you so very upset. And I'm sorry for going against your wishes so often—only I'm not sure I would do anything differently given the chance. I suppose that means I'm not particularly sorry, doesn't it?"

"You're talking nonsense," Thorin said. "Go to sleep."

"Should I leave?"

"No." Thranduil had said that he wasn't getting enough rest. And it felt right, somehow, to have Bilbo settling in to sleep beside him. He thought of the first hours after the battle: when he'd known with a certainty that he was dying, and Bilbo had stayed beside him the whole long night, faithful through it all.

Bilbo made a small noise of contentment. "Good. I'm awfully tired all of a sudden. Not sure I could move if I tried. But tell me if I'm being a nuisance, or if you want your blanket back, or—"

"Sleep," Thorin ordered sternly. "Now."

For once, Bilbo did as he was told.

* * *

Gandalf was sitting alone, wrapped in his cloak and smoking a pipe, contemplative. It was a clear night, but foul weather was rolling in from the northwest, soaking up the starlight and drowning it in dark clouds.

Thranduil appeared at his side, silent, like a wraith with golden hair. One of his soldiers stood a modest distance behind.

"My escort," he said, thought Gandalf had not said a word. "I leave tonight."

"And the young prince?"

Thranduil raised his eyebrows. "You are a prying soul, Mithrandir, even by the reckonings of the Istari. Yes, Legolas is staying here. I lost him to Dale once, and when I laid eyes on the dragon killer I knew it would happen again. He can be spared for half a century, if that is how long it takes for the man to die."

"You are not worried for him?"

"I trust him. He is not a child, no matter how he seems to you. He loves his king, and his soldiers. The forest will always be his home."

Gandalf hummed thoughtfully, leaning back until he could see Eärendil's star, sailing on its endless course across the dark sky. "Be careful among the ruins, old friend."

"You think something lingers there?"

"You wouldn't leave so hastily unless something was troubling you."

Thranduil lowered his voice. "The captain of my guard has been sending reports. Her letters came up with the supplies for Dale."

"Tell me," said Gandalf.

"She took a wound in Dol Goldur, but she does not recall how or when. Three of her soldiers have disappeared, and two more have been found dead. There is something evil in that place, Mithrandir. I do not doubt you drove the Necromancer from the forest, but perhaps he was not alone."

Gandalf sighed. "The Necromancer is gone. But I am beginning to think that he fled of his own choosing. You were right, I'm afraid. Something did happen this morning."

"When you were waking the boy?"

"Yes. I have been thinking on it for hours, but it eludes me. Whatever _it _may be."

"It may be him," Thranduil said.

Gandalf did not deny it. The possibility had haunted him since he'd first felt the Necromancer's presence, lingering in a sword that should have been buried with a warlord long dead. Sauron had once commanded a great power over spirits and souls. Sauron, so silver-tongued and beautiful, who had in Valinor been dear as a brother to him.

"Yes," he said, heavily. "It may be him."

The stars shone bright overhead. Clouds drifted over the ragged line of mountains to the north, over the windy heath where Bolg still lurked. But beneath the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, all was still and peaceful.

In a pavilion near the gate, a king and his burglar were curled up together, sound asleep; a golden-haired boy kept watch at his brother's side, struggling to keep his eyes open. Down in the old city of Dale, an elven prince talked quietly with the man who had slain a dragon. And long after the Elvenking left, riding hard for Mirkwood, Gandalf still sat alone in the darkness.

He was thinking of the ring that Bilbo had found, and wondering what sort of creature would call itself Gollum.


	10. All Hail to the Days

**And I'm Your Lionheart**

Chapter 10

All Hail to the Days

**A/N**: Included in this chapter: unexpected elves, winter in Dale, a slightly tipsy Bilbo, and Thorin's attempt at the Yuletide spirit. The chapter title comes from Loreena McKennitt's song "In Praise of Christmas."

_All hail to the days that merit more praise / than all the rest of the year / and welcome the nights that double delights / as well for the poor as the peer_.

Slightly relevant: From mid-June to early July, I'll be working on the Great Lakes, which means I won't have a computer or internet connection. But I'll try to get one more chapter posted before I leave, and to write while I'm away.

**Disclaimer**: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

* * *

The mountain passes were closed, but that was of little concern for the two elves who were traveling east over Caradhras, moving quick and fleet footed over the deep drifts. The snow had been packed hard by the driving winds, and the elves were dressed in layers and warm cloaks, well suited to the foul weather.

Night was approaching. It would soon be the shortest day of the year, and darkness came early. A small hollow in the craggy slopes, not deep enough to be called a cave, assured them that they would at least survive until dawn.

"You start a fire," Elladan said. "I'll keep watch."

Elrohir made a face. "As if it's worth the bother. We haven't caught so much as the scent of a goblin since we left home."

Elladan tugged on one of Elrohir's braids, a childish gesture of affection that he had never grown out of. "Nevertheless."

Elrohir knelt to the ground and began rummaging through his pack. He had been collecting pine needles and bits of dried bark when they were still below the tree line, and they had brought as much dry wood as they could carry. "Toss me your tinderbox."

Elladan obliged. "Lost yours again, brother?"

"No. It's just buried somewhere at the bottom of all this." He shoved the tangle of clothes, wrapped food, and weapons gear back into his pack.

"You should keep your things more carefully."

Elrohir started packing down snow, making a windbreak for his little pile of firewood. It was labor made rote by endless repetition; his idle thoughts began drifting homeward, to Imladris. "We could be sitting beside father in the halls, in front of a roaring hearth." He chivvied the scattered sparks into a sad little flame. "With Lindir playing his harp and singing all the old midwinter tunes."

"Don't," Elladan said, not turning around. It was an old argument, and he was sick of hearing it.

But Elrohir persisted. "Father would have Estel curled up beside him, and the little lad would be watching everything with those eyes of his, all wide and wondering. He's just a child, for all he thinks he's a warrior." A swirling gust of wind drove snow and flecks of ice into the quiet air underneath the overhang. The flame flickered and went out. "Why did we ever leave home?"

"You know why we left," Elladan said. "What makes this winter different from any other?"

"We didn't have Estel before. He doesn't understand why we do it. The hunting. Why we're gone for months and months at a time. " Elrohir sat back and made a small noise of satisfaction as the wood began to smoke, another small flame cracking amid the careful pile of tinder. This one stubbornly refused to go out. "He wanted to come with us, you know. Wanted to go on an adventure."

"Brave lad," Elladan said. For the first time there was a trace of regret in his voice: sadness, resignation. He stepped further into the shelter of the overhang, toward the warmth of the fire. Elrohir was feeding it branches, piece by broken piece. "Oh, curse it all, you're right," he said. "There's no point in keeping watch. There's not a goblin left in these mountains." He settled down on the ground, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders. "What happened to them?"

Elrohir hummed thoughtfully. He was softer than his brother in some ways, quieter and more even-tempered, but he had the greater share of Lord Elrond's foresight. "They left," he said, brushing his fingers against the cold stone of the mountainside. "In great haste, and armed for war. I do not think they will be coming back."

"Good. Though I would have liked the pleasure of killing a few of them myself."

The wind howled, and far down in some bleak rocky valley a warg howled back. Elladan tensed, and then relaxed: only one of the creatures. A warg would not hunt or kill alone. No doubt it too was searching for shelter, or for the pack it had lost.

"I think of her often, this time of year," Elrohir said, a little later. He leaned away from the warmth of the fire, letting his head fall onto Elladan's shoulder. Outside of their little overhang, the darkness was complete. "She loved it so. The singing, and the decorations. The miruvor. Do you remember how she and father used to dance?"

"Why must you speak of such things?"

"I would rather remember her like that," Elrohir said. "Better to think of her dancing then captured in the mountains, alone but for—well."

"And that is the difference between us, for I can think of nothing else," Elladan said.

Indeed, he was thinking of it even as he spoke; his hands tightened against Elrohir's shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. It was unconsciously done, but Elrohir still reached up and forcibly loosened his grip. "You're hurting me," he said.

Elladan drew back hastily. "Oh. I didn't mean to."

"You never do. If we want to hunt," Elrohir said, "we must go further east. Across the mountains."

"How far east?"

Elrohir closed his eyes, reached out in some inexpressible way into the earth and air around him. "Hundreds of miles," he said. "To another mountain, standing alone. There will be a great battle there on midsummer's day. I see—" he took a sharp breath, "—I see smoke rising from the slopes, and a town razed to the ground."

"The Lonely Mountain, and Dale of old beneath it. Have the dwarves reclaimed it, then? Is the dragon dead?"

Elrohir opened his eyes. "I do not know. I could see nothing but the smoke. If we wish to hunt, though, that is the place for it. All of Ered Mithrin will be emptied."

Elladan made a noise than sounded halfway to a growl. "Good."

"Father will miss us," Elrohir said. "It is a long journey. We may not come back."

But he already knew that his brother would not care about that. Elladan was not one to fret about their chances of death by the sword in the midst of war. It was capture that he feared, and helplessness, and a long slow fading like Celebrían's—like their mother who had once been laughing and strong, her hair as bright as quicksilver. No matter what Elladan thought, Elrohir remembered all too well the way she had looked when they found her at last in these very mountains.

There was a reason that the sons of Elrond spent their winters hunting goblins.

"So be it," Elladan said, just as Elrohir had known that he would. And then, perhaps still conscious of the small crescent bruises blossoming under the sleeve of Elrohir's tunic, he leaned in once more and said: "Happy Turuhalmë, brother."

Elrohir thought of Estel, and of their father, and the warmth and laughter that would be filling the halls of Imladris. "Happy Turuhalmë," he said, softly.

He watched through all the long night, as his lonely fire burned down to ashes and the darkness closed in. There was no wood left. But they were together, and they would not freeze.

* * *

By dawn there was indeed smoke rising from Dale, as Elrohir had seen in his vision. But for now it was only the ordinary sort, wood smoke curling up from stone and mud chimneys, a good strong scent that lingered in the lungs and promised warmth behind closed doors. Bilbo had grown used to the acrid dusty smell of the coal fires that heated the upper levels of Erebor, and the change was a welcome one. He breathed in deep, and let the chilly air fill his lungs.

More than a month had passed since the battle, and life was settling down into the inevitable routine of survival. The gnawing cold and hunger were endurable only because there was a promised end in sight; spring would come, as sure as anything. The frigid nights would grow shorter, and the thick dark ice that had frozen over the River Running would weaken and melt away.

But until then the lean cold months loomed bleak and barren in front of them. Consequently, Bilbo spent a great deal of time in the kitchens, which were by far the coziest part of the mountain. He remembered all too well the miserable days of the Fell Winter, which had almost starved the hobbits out of the Shire when he was little more than child. When he had to venture out, he wore an absurd number of layers, including a thick fur coat that Thorin had thrown at him one day, along with a sharp "Stop shivering, Master Burglar. You make me feel cold every time I look at you."

It had not escaped Bilbo's notice that Thorin spent a great deal of time doing just that. Looking at him, that is, not shivering; Thorin was too dignified to shiver, at least when people might see him. But ever since Dain had returned to the Iron Hills, leaving more than half his army behind, it had become apparent that Thorin spent more time with Bilbo than anyone else in Erebor. Indeed, the depth of the king's favor was so undeniable that even the stodgiest and least welcoming of dwarves had no choice but to reluctantly accept Bilbo into the midst.

For the lords and advisers that had decided to stay in Erebor rather than returning to the Iron Hills with Dain, it was a question of survival, a rule of propinquity. Thorin had neither the time nor the patience to listen to their slew of suggestions, requests, and complaints, but Bilbo did—and Thorin listened to Bilbo as he did no one else. Suddenly, befriending the hobbit was considered a _very _sensible thing to do. Bilbo tolerated it well enough, though he spent a great deal of time complaining to Thorin, who usually ignored him for a few minutes before telling him, not without some sympathy, to stop whining and go fetch him the Council meeting minutes.

The only time Bilbo was free to do exactly as he pleased, without being run off his feet with work and arguments and meetings and cajoling, was when he went down to Dale to visit Bard. Officially, of course, he was "consulting about the current state of finances and trade between the city of Dale and the sovereign kingdom of Erebor." Bard's fourteenth share of the treasure remained securely within the vaults of Erebor, but his credits and debits were reckoned to the penny every week. The dwarves had decided that it was Bilbo's job to keep him honest.

So once every seven days Bilbo ventured out of Erebor into the cutting wind, appropriated a makeshift sleigh and a team of two ponies, and sat bundled in furs alongside a morose dwarf named Ibur, who had taken it upon himself to make sure that Bilbo didn't freeze to death while he was outside the mountain. Bilbo appreciated the thoughtfulness, but not the conversation; Ibur so delighted in making dire predictions and offering gloomy suggestions that Dori seemed blithely cheerful by comparison.

"Thank you, Ibur," Bilbo said on that particular morning, just as they arrived at the walls that bounded the town. "I'll be done around mid-afternoon, I should think."

"Take care not to get frostbite," Ibur said, as Bilbo stepped off the sled and straight into an inconvenient snowdrift. "Or murdered. Do you suppose the king would kill me, if I let you get murdered?"

"He would probably be very irritated, yes," said Bilbo. "Have a nice morning, Ibur."

"Don't suppose I will," Ibur said.

At his command, the ponies trudged off, their heads bowed against the wind. Bilbo watched them vanish into the swirling snow, and then turned around and made his way toward the wall. The gates, made of thick wood and reinforced with iron, were crude but sturdily built, and it took two strong men to lift the heavy iron bar and push the gates open against the wind. Bilbo slipped inside, and the gates slammed shut behind him.

"Brisk, innit?" one of the gatekeepers said, breathlessly. "But it's quieter inside. The walls keep the worst of it out. Bard's in the Master's lodge, so I reckon you can wait there until he's done."

The snow wasn't as deep inside the walls, and the walking paths were well-trodden. Passerby waved and said polite good mornings as he passed. Bilbo was quickly becoming one of the most familiar faces in Dale, and Bard liked him, which meant he was regarded with general favor, at least among the soldiers and their families.

Bilbo had quickly learned that it was not very pleasant, having influence only because you had the favor of the titled and powerful. Turning down Lord Varin's perennial requests for better living quarters was easy. Telling a town that a supply caravan bringing a month's worth of supplies had been ambushed by goblins before it reached Erebor was not.

That had been almost a fortnight ago. This time Bilbo faced nothing worse on his walk through Dale than a few hopeful women asking him when the next loads of timber from Mirkwood would arrive.

"Soon," he promised them. "In two or three days, if the weather improves and we can keep the roads clear."

No sooner had he arrived at the lodge than Bilbo heard muffled shouting and a chorus of slamming doors. Gaven was lurking under the eaves, smoking a pipe and warming his hands over a brazier. The coals glowed warm and ruddy against the black iron.

Most days, he stuck to Bard's side like a burr to a woolen blanket. Bard sulked and scowled, claiming that he didn't need a bodyguard and that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, but Gaven cheerfully ignored him. Indeed, spent a great deal of time at Bard's house, exchanging significant glances with Legolas every time Bard started complaining about fussing mother hens.

"Is something the matter?" Bilbo asked him.

Gaven shrugged. "The usual. They're fighting again."

"Oh, dear." Now that Bilbo was listening for it, he could make out the Master's unmistakable voice, coming from the second story of the lodge. It was a manor house, really, with a high peaked roof and proper shutters and elegant carvings on all the doors. There was even real glass in a few of the windows, and four chimneys with curls of grey smoke drifting up into monotonous winter sky. "Will Bard be down soon, do you suppose?"

"Hard to say. He's in a rotten mood. Got the bit between his teeth, so if the Master's thinking to wear him down, I reckon they'll be locked up there all morning."

"What happened?"

Gaven shrugged again. "According to the gossips, Bard got cornered last night outside the walls. One of them had a knife, and it came from the lodge. The Master don't take much trouble to keep his servants in line." He offered the pipe to Bilbo, who accepted it gratefully.

"Is he all right?"

"Bard? It weren't nothing but some bruises, if that's what you mean. The prince wouldn't let him go haring around if he was hurt any worse. But he's madder than a wildcat, from the sound of it. Can't say as I blame him. Of course, it wouldn't have happened at all if he weren't so damned stubborn. He won't let anyone look out for him proper."

They smoked in companionable silence for a while. When the cold became unbearable they headed inside, knocking the snow off their boots before they stepped over the threshold. One of the servants—the Master had half a dozen of them—glanced around nervously when Gaven appeared, then hurried outside and whispered something in his ear. He frowned and nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "Thanks, love. I'll pass it along."

Bilbo looked curiously at him, but Gaven pretended not to notice, turning and ducking awkwardly through the doorway. "Dwarven built," he said, aiming a kick at the frame. "Clever bastards. Everything's a little too low. Reckon they did it to punish us for our crimes, and it's working. I'm always knocking my head on the rafters."

Bilbo had heard the same complaint at least a dozen times. He tactfully never mentioned that the dwarven builders had been congratulating themselves over that particular architectural triumph ever since the framework for the first house in Dale had gone up.

Somewhere over the course of his adventures, Bilbo had turned into a shameless eavesdropper, and he felt absolutely no guilt in listening intently to the argument upstairs, picking out snatches of muffled dialogue and puzzling over the pieces he couldn't quite hear. As far as he could tell, they were fighting over the rationing. That had been one of Bard's less popular decisions, and the Master had backed him only reluctantly, but there was no avoiding it. Stores in Dale and Erebor were running dangerously low, and all the goodwill in the world couldn't keep shipments from Mirkwood and the Iron Hills on schedule; the weather and the goblins both were conspiring against them.

Sooner rather than later the shouting stopped, and Bard came down the stairs towards them. The scowl on his face was made far worse by a black eye, blossoming into sickly blue and purple, and an impressive set of finger-shaped bruises ringing his neck.

"Don't you look handsome," Gaven drawled. "Had a late night, did you?"

Bard thumped him hard on the shoulder. Gaven yelped, but before he could retaliate, the Master's voice drifted down from the second story: "Bard, my boy, you will make certain you let me look at the account books this week? The supply rosters too, there's a good lad. And tell my manservant to send up my morning tea."

Bard made a strangled noise, like an angry cat. He pointed a passing servant girl in the direction of the stairs, snapped "Tea!" and stomped out of the lodge, only just remembering to duck as he passed under the doorway. Gaven followed at his side, Bilbo trailing behind them and struggling to keep up with their long strides.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," Bard said to him, once they were outdoors and had left the lodge long behind. "If I'd known you were here, I would have sent you back to my house."

"Oh, it's no trouble," Bilbo said. He might have been more annoyed about being forgotten if Bard didn't look quite so exhausted and ghastly. "Are you certain you're all right?"

Bard touched the swollen skin underneath his black eye and winced. "Yes. Just some poor fool who was sick of going hungry every night. And the Master insists on holding his little feasts, and going through all the rosters and account books at his leisure, as if I can't be trusted to look after so much as a cord of firewood." He took a few deep breaths, struggling to keep his voice even. "Why don't we talk about something else? I'd rather not start shouting again."

Bilbo obligingly began outlining their renegotiated costs of building materials and labor, and then the progress the Council was making on three separate trade agreements and the commensurate effects of each on the price of the grain being shipped from the Iron Hills.

Bard made vague sounds of agreement and waved Bilbo on, so he scrambled for something else to say and starting rambling about how the patrol schedule was being changed to accommodate the snow-choked winter trade routes. "Dwalin should have the rosters for you early next month," Bilbo said. "And we'll send them out to King Dain and the Elvenking at the same time.

"Good," Bard said. "If we lose next month's supplies—"

"We won't," Bilbo said, with more confidence than he felt. "If any goblins cross the northern borders, we'll have warning of it. Dain is doubling the number of guards, and Thorin is sending soldiers to watch the roads south from the Withered Heath. One of the princes will be with them."

They arrived at a wooden one-room house at the edge of the little town. A handful of elven runes had been beautifully carved into the door; wood was stacked on either side, only partially sheltered by the narrow eaves. The clothesline was laden with a strange assortment of clothes frozen stiff in the snow and wind: Bard's battered tunics and cloaks hung up alongside the children's dresses and a few garments made of finely-sewn elven cloth.

"We were careless last time," Bard said, swinging the door open and ushering them inside. "And if we—"

A chorus of shrieks and laughter interrupted him. Bard stopped in his tracks as two small figures flew out of the house. He caught one by the collar, but the other slipped under his arm and fled outside. "Elsie, gods curse it—you little wretch, at least put on a coat!"

Legolas appeared in the doorway, the aforementioned coat in his hands. Bard's younger and more obedient cousin followed in his shadow. When Legolas stopped in the doorway to say hello to Bilbo, she clutched the hem of his tunic, staring at Bilbo with wide dark eyes.

"I tried," Legolas said, when Bard looked pointedly at him, and then down at Elsie's coat. "She says she doesn't get cold. I suppose she takes after you. Hello, Bilbo. Gaven." He nodded to both of them, smiling a little.

Bard kicked off his boots and shoved them in a corner. "She can't take after me. She's not mine, thank the gods. Come in, both of you," he said. "It'll be crowded, but we can manage."

The house was comfortably warm, and Bilbo shivered in gratitude, brushing the last of the snow off his clothes. A woodstove in the center of the room radiated heat, and a stack of dry logs was piled high beside it.

The main room was large and cheerfully lit, and the walls were sturdy enough to keep even the worst blizzards at bay. It was a simple dwelling, with a packed dirt floor and no furniture to speak of. Two straw mattresses leaned against one walls, and a battered rug was spread out in front of the fireplace. Whittled pegs were set into the walls to hold coats and weapons. By rights, the heir of Lord Girion should have had the finest house of them all, but there were no manservants or iron braziers here. Bilbo had wondered more than once what Bard thought of that.

The Master of Laketown was currently without either a lake or a town, but it seemed that he was still the master.

A few ribbons and sprigs of greenery had been hung up in honor of the holiday, at the children's insistence. Bilbo had helped them decorate last week, and at Glóin's request he had brought a few pretty gems from the mountain as presents. A handful of opals were a petty substitute for the Arkenstone, but the girls had never seen anything so precious in their lives.

Bilbo had no doubt they would have preferred a proper meal and new clothes; even the finest of gemstones were useless when there was nothing to buy.

"They're pretty," Elsie had said, pouring the sparkling little gems from one hand to another. They gleamed, pearlescent, and tiny veins of color blazed as the firelight flickered. "But there aren't any markets. So what are we supposed to use them for?"

"I'll teach you how to play Liar's dice," Bard had promised her, when Bilbo couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. "And we can use the opals like coin for betting."

She had brightened at that.

But there were no festivities today, and even the children were a little on edge, louder and more demanding than was their wont. While Bilbo was shedding his wraps and furs, Legolas pulled Bard aside and spoke to him, too quick and soft for Bilbo to follow. Bard looked tired, not angry, and his shoulders slumped as Legolas spoke. He shook his head. "It's nothing. He said he would take care of it."

Legolas reached out, his fingers gentle on the bruises marring Bard's neck. "This is not nothing. The girls could hardly sleep last night, they were so scared. Elsie wouldn't go to bed until I gave her one of my knives to put under her pillow."

Bard reached up and took the prince's hand in his own. He made as if to kiss it, but Legolas flinched and pulled back.

Bard scowled, looking away. "The girls have nothing to do with this," he said. "And if you must fuss, at least wait until our guests leave."

Bard kept the account books under lock and key, carefully out of sight. He fetched them as Bilbo, busy pretending that he hadn't been seen or heard anything, claimed his usual spot on the threadbare rug. Elsie was still outside, but Bard's cousins had taken Gaven by the hands and dragged him to their corner of the room, demanding that he play with the toy soldiers that Legolas had given them for a Yuletide present; Gaven was an endless source of entertainment for the children, and he good-naturedly let them order him around.

"I didn't know that elves celebrated Yule," Bilbo said, watching as the girls began setting up for a pitched battle, arguing over who would get the Númenóreans and whether or not there had been dwarves at the siege of Barad-dûr. Evidently someone had been telling them bedtime stories.

Legolas sat down too, his legs curled underneath him. He was thinner than he had been a month ago, and he looked tired and worried, but he smiled a little at Bilbo's confusion. "Yesterday was the first night of an ancient Noldorin festival," he said. "Turuhalmë. My people don't honor it, but it is very much like your Yuletide. The soldiers were mine when I was a child, and I asked my father to send them along with the last reports from Mirkwood. Bard said that the children would like dolls or figurines."

And so he had decided on a set of toy soldiers. Sometimes, but never for long, Bilbo forgot that he was living in a glorified military camp.

"Here," Bard said, reappearing in their midst with his arms full of books and parchment. He thumped the towering stack down on the floor. "Let's get this over with, why don't we?"

They settled down to work while Gaven kept the children distracted, and between the three of them they made short work of the balances; Legolas was clever with numbers and had some experience with the running of towns and kingdoms. Bilbo and Bard spent a frustrating amount of time scribbling out totals and wondering whether straw should count as food or fuel.

When Elsie returned, slipping through the door along with a flurry of snow, she refused to go play. Instead, she sat beside Bard and watched the proceedings with great interest.

"If you say 'according to the Council' one more time, I'm going to throw you out on your ear," Bard said. "We only use it in the stoves when the wood and coal run short. Which it wouldn't, if our convoys could make it across the Desolation without being raided."

"Why does it matter?" Elise asked, peering at the sheets of parchment over Bard's shoulder. "Straw is straw."

"Sensible girl," Bard said, and Elsie edged a little closer to him.

Bilbo thought for a moment about how best to explain the concept of import tariffs, and then decided that it wasn't worth the bother. "Oh, confound it all, you're right. Straw is straw. I'll just mark it down as a necessary good, and tell Thorin not to bother with taxing it."

Lord Varin, he thought with no little satisfaction, could stew to his heart's content over his precious trade legislation. The king's amendment and a three-fourths vote from the Council could rewrite practically any law in the land, and Bilbo had both king and council tucked neatly in his waistcoat pocket.

Which was precisely what got him in trouble with Lord Varin in the first place.

They worked well into the afternoon, and by the time they had settled the last of the accounts and put the hated stack of parchment back in its lockbox, it was well past time for Bilbo to return to the mountain. He stayed anyway, wheedled into joining Gaven and the children in their game. Somewhere along the long and inordinately complex road to war, the elves and men had taken up residence in Barad-dûr and were busily fortifying it against an unexpected attack by a legion of trolls.

"Like the ones in your story, Mister Bilbo," Elsie said.

"Oh, and King Oropher isn't dead," Bard's youngest cousin told him. But she was looking at Legolas as she said it, smiling brightly, as if his grandfather had suddenly sprung back to life at her declaration.

Legolas knelt beside her. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Now, tell me more about these trolls. Are they very dangerous?"

Soon, she and her sister were arguing over how many men it took to bring down a troll. Bard was dragged in to settle the matter once and for all, and he did, at which point Gaven told them that Bard wouldn't be able to tell a troll from a boulder if one came up and bit him. The debate began all over again. Bilbo, the resident authority on trolls, was so reduced to helpless laughter that he was of no use to either side.

"You should come up to visit sometime," he said to Bard, as he was bundling up to leave. "All of you. We've done a fine job restoring the upper levels, and Bombur has been making mulled wine from the casks that Thranduil sent us. We could have a proper Yuletide celebration."

Bard smiled, a little ruefully. "You're very kind," he said. "And the girls would love it. But I don't think Thorin Oakenshield would be too pleased to see me at his gates again.

"Oh, I would talk him into it," Bilbo said. "Just you wait, Master Bowman. One day when you least expect it, a messenger will come from Erebor with a gilded invitation to dine in the royal hall."

Bard shook his head. "Aye, on the same day that Gaven tosses a crown at me and calls me king of Dale. It's a kind thought, Mister Baggins, but Thorin and I will never be friends."

It was probably true, Bilbo thought, as Ibur drove the sleigh back toward the mountain through the white drifting snow. It would have been nice, though, having everyone together for the holidays.

Back in the Shire, Bilbo had regarded his numerous relations as more trouble than they were worth. They had been particularly irksome in the wintertime, when all he wanted to do was curl up with a cup of tea and a nice book. But things were different now. For reasons which he didn't quite understand, Bilbo felt nervous every time he looked down at the sturdy walls and little houses of Dale.

Compared to the towering strength of the mountain, he supposed that any town would look small and vulnerable, but not even Bard would bother denying that Dale was indefensible. There were still goblins lurking in the north, though no one knew how many. And there was word from Thranduil that Dol Goldur had not been entirely forsaken. Bilbo was left with a lingering unease and a longing, no matter how impractical, to keep everyone safe in the mountain, sheltered by the strength of steel and stone walls.

It was a worry that Thorin would understand well. Or perhaps that was just it. Perhaps somewhere along the way, he had started shouldering Thorin's worries and burdens as his own.

It was, Bilbo though wryly, probably the only decent Yuletide gift that he could give to the richest king in Arda.

He certainly wouldn't want a set of toy soldiers.

* * *

"I think there's trouble down in Dale," Bilbo told Thorin, late that evening. "Or there will be soon enough. One of these days the Master will push too far, and Bard will lose his temper."

"Given the choice between the two of them, I would back the soldier," Thorin said. He still refused to use Bard's name, if he could avoid it. "But I leave the gambling to Nori."

They were in Thorin's old quarters in the royal wing of the palace, which were once again clean and orderly; the dust and grime of more than a century had been scrubbed away, and some of Thorin's old belongings had even been salvageable.

Thorin had taken to spending his evenings there, meeting informally with his closest advisors. More often than not Bilbo stayed late into the night. Sometimes he did nothing more useful than listen while Thorin dictated formal letters to Ori, or read quietly while Thorin paced back and forth, working through some uncomfortably thorny problem that had come up during a recent Council meeting. More commonly, the evenings turned into informal Council meetings all on their own. Bilbo usually kept quiet. He was hopelessly out of his depth when it came to standing patrols or the structural integrity of the lower levels of the mountain.

Tonight, however, it was only the two of them, and they were doing nothing more productive than sitting in front of the hearth and drinking wine. Thorin claimed it was in somewhat belated honor of Yule, which of course was nonsense—dwarves didn't celebrate it, and only those few that had spent years living among men had given it even the slightest thought. It was far more likely that Thorin had finally given in to Balin's wheedling and agreed to take the evening off.

("You can't be forever working," Balin had said more than once, which Thorin seemed to take a challenge rather than a reminder that even the king of Erebor was only mortal.)

At least the wine was excellent. As a whole, dwarves were inclined to ales or spirits, and Thorin was not much impressed with the vintage, but it suited Bilbo perfectly. Thranduil had no doubt selected it precisely for that reason. The Elvenking had sent it to Bilbo as a present, and it was better by far than anything that Bilbo had ever stolen from the cellars of his palace; it was a dark red, almost smoky, with hints of plums and blackberries. The scent reminded Bilbo of the infamous oaken wine barrels that he had used to break the dwarves out of Thranduil's dungeons.

"I will never understand," Thorin told him, distastefully, "why you insist on drinking something that tastes like vinegar."

For the last few minutes Bilbo had been swirling his glass in an abstracted way, his thoughts still drifting back to Dale. "Yes, quite," he said, paying no attention to what he was saying. He had learned was usually best to agree with Thorin when he started complaining, or at least to nod and pretend to be politely interested.

Thorin had evidently noticed. "If you want to leave, you need not stay on my account," he said. "I'm sure you can find company more congenial to your tastes."

"What?" Bilbo sorted through the last few moments of their conversation in his mind, scrambling for something appropriate to say. Oh. Something about the wine. "Don't be absurd. You would probably quite like it, if Thranduil hadn't been the one to give it to me."

"Hardly," said Thorin, which Bilbo took to mean that he was entirely right. "If our brews aren't good enough for you, it's no concern of mine."

"And if you're going to be like that, I'll not share any more of it with you. You can go back to drinking that appalling slop that Nori's been selling."

Thorin made a face at that; he relented with good grace and took another sip of wine. "Oín is helping him now," he said. "He says that it's his bounden duty to see that Nori doesn't accidentally poison anyone."

Bilbo laughed at that, letting the last of his worries slip away. It was rare to see Thorin in such a good mood, and no good would come of fretting the evening away. But before he could reply, there was a muffled clatter in the hallway outside, followed by a chorus of familiar raised voices and the slamming of a heavy wooden door.

Thorin sighed.

"And there goes Kili," Bilbo said. It had become a familiar scene over the last fortnight, and what followed was equally predictable.

There was a knock on the door, and before Thorin had a chance to say anything, Fili pushed the heavy oaken door open and slipped inside. "I'm sorry to bother you," he said, softly. "Do you mind?"

"Come on in, lad," Thorin said. He poured Fili a glass of wine, which Fili downed in a few quick gulps. "Sit. Did your brother throw you out again?"

"No," Fili said, throwing himself into a battered old armchair by the fire. "We had a fight. He left."

Thorin and Bilbo exchanged a glance; so much for their quiet evening alone. "Do I need to thrash some sense into him?" Thorin asked. "Or will you do that yourself?"

Fili made a small, miserable noise. "Don't joke," he said. "I can't even imagine hurting him, not when he's so grim and determined to do it himself. Why can't you order him not to go out on patrol?"

"And leave him to rage and storm until he finally draws his sword on someone?" Thorin shook his head. "His body is as healed as it ever will be, though I cannot understand how. If I order him to stay in the mountain, he will not obey me. When he disobeys I will be obligated to punish him, and he will hate me for it."

It was true. Once Gandalf had stirred him from his sleep, Kili was on his feet so soon that Oín declared that the lad was blessed by Mahal. Just like his uncle, the dwarves of the mountain said, nodding sagely amongst themselves. A true heir of Durin. Not even Azog the Defiler and all the orcs of Gundabad could bring down Thorin Oakenshield, and his youngest sister-son was alike to him in more than mere looks; Kili might have been half dead and missing a hand, but he threw himself into the rebuilding of Erebor with a determination that bordered on violence. He sparred with anyone who would take the time to fight him, and drilled until he collapsed in exhaustion.

In deference to Thorin, no one ever pointed out that Fili had never quite recovered from his own injuries, modest though they had been in comparison to Kili's. Thorin wouldn't discuss it, and dismissed the tentative suggestions that there was something wrong with Fili, that his lingering pallor and exhaustion were even slightly out of the ordinary. "We are all of us tired," he had said, coldly. "Fili does his duties and more."

No one, even Bilbo, had dared to say anything more about it.

"He's going to get himself killed," Fili said, a note of pleading in his voice. "Uncle, he's half-mad. I've never seen him so angry before. It's almost cruel, the way he uses himself."

Thorin frowned contemplatively. The banked fire crackled, casting flickering shadows against the smooth arches of stone. "Did your mother ever tell you about the time that Frerin broke both his arms at once?"

"Both?" Fili echoed. "That sounds—well, that sounds awful."

"Yes," Thorin said. "At the time, those were the most miserable months of my life. They were certainly the most miserable months of _his _life."

"What happened?"

"The formations on the south side were unstable, though we didn't know it at the time. Grandfather wanted tunnels spreading out across the plains, to make travel up from Dale easier in the wintertime. Frerin was down with the surveyors when the tunnels collapsed."

"How did he escape?" Bilbo was too curious to care about being rude. Thorin, unlike the rest of the dwarves, almost never spoke of his family or his life before the journey to Erebor; if it weren't for Balin and his irrepressible fondness for history lessons, Bilbo would have known nothing of Thorin's life before the moment he knocked on the front door of Bag End. Until this moment, Bilbo had never heard him so much as mention his brother's name.

"I found him," Thorin said, as if were the simplest thing in the world. "He knew that I would."

"Was he terribly angry?" Fili asked. "About being rescued, I mean."

To Bilbo it seemed an incomprehensible question, but Thorin only nodded and said "Sometimes. But he mended, and in the meantime I looked after him whether he wanted me to or not."

"I wish I'd known him," Fili said.

Thorin hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Would you like to hear another story?"

Fili almost dropped his wineglass. "You mean it?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't," Thorin said. His voice was gruff. "Our burglar ought to have a few tales of the family he restored to its kingdom, don't you think?"

Bilbo swallowed. "I would like that very much," he said, his voice soft with something approaching reverence. "If you don't mind."

True to his word, Thorin told them stories of Erebor in the golden afternoon of its glory, when their trade stretched from Far Harad to the distant western Havens of the elves, and the word of a dwarf of the mountain was as good as gold in all the courts and markets of Arda. They were more like fairy tales than family history, and Bilbo wondered if many years ago, perhaps in this very room, Thrór had told his young grandson these same tales. They were bedtime stories fit for a prince of Erebor, and sometime after midnight Fili fell asleep listening to Thorin's deep baritone voice. Thorin carried on for a few minutes, watching his nephew fondly.

"They called our mountain the watchtower of the north," he finished at last, "as great as Amon Sûl when the kings of Arnor still held strong. Long after Eregion was lost, and the king of Arthedain fell to Angmar's trickery, the dwarves of Erebor stood strong and proud, and bowed before no lords but their own."

Then he fell silent for a moment, and shook his head. "I feel like a court jester," he said. "Those words belong to my grandfather, not to me."

"No," Bilbo said, not yet free from the spell of Thorin's voice. So close to the hearth, the room was drowsily warm, and the wine was making him lightheaded. "You do them honor. I feel like I could march into battle against all the goblins in the world."

"I thought you already had."

Bilbo flushed. "Yes, well. There was nothing heroic about it, really. Surely you know it was all for you."

Thorin looked at Bilbo with such undisguised affection that Bilbo had to resist the temptation to do something appallingly Tookish and inappropriate. "Shouldn't you wake Fili?" he said, hastily. "We have a Council meeting tomorrow morning, after all."

"All the more reason to let him sleep. If I sent him back to his rooms, he would only wait up until Kili came back."

"Yes, well. I should leave, at any rate. It's been a long day. Busy." Bilbo almost tripped over his own feet as he stood. Surely he hadn't had that much to drink!

"As you like," Thorin said, smiling a little. Bilbo had the vague sense that he was being made fun of. "Happy Yule, Bilbo."

"Happy Yule," Bilbo said, and fled the scene before he said something unforgivable. Only much later, when he was curled up in his own bed and trying without much success to calm his racing thoughts, did he realize that Thorin had called him by his given name.

It was, to his recollection, the first time in the entirety of their acquaintance.


End file.
